


Little Glass Vial

by L_Greene



Category: Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008), Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Greene/pseuds/L_Greene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossover/AU! In 2052, Dean Winchester is broke and out of time. He accepts a job offer as a repo man but under the condition that he can never contact his brother Sam again. In 2056, Sam Winchester is homeless and broke. He thinks Dean is dead and befriends dealer Gabriel Novak, who goes by the street name Loki. Gabriel's brother Castiel is a streetwalker with his own debt to GeneCo until he defaults on his payment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**2052** _

_Dean made absolutely certain that Sam was asleep before he left the apartment. He knew the night would end in blood and he didn't want his younger brother to see it. He was only sixteen—there was plenty of time for that later. Besides, he'd done all he could._

_Some people might say that he was foolish for giving up, for resigning himself to his fate, but no one could possibly save him from this. Still, he had his knife in his pocket, and he wasn't going down without a fight. He didn't honestly believe he could take down a trained repo man, but maybe he could get in a lucky swing or two. He wasn't going to make it_ too _easy on him._

_Darting from streetlight to streetlight, he made his way down the street and into the alley a block down from his apartment building. He'd left a note for Sam, to let him know he was sorry, not to worry, that even though Dean would die, he would still be safe, but he couldn't let it happen so close to home, when Sammy could easily glance out the window and see what was happening. He only prayed that he would sleep through the night and not find the note until morning, until after his body had been cleared away._

_Sam would try to get involved, and then_ he'd _end up dead, too._

_Dean waited in the alley, running his fingers over the scars on his back, the remnants of the surgery he'd had eight years ago. His kidneys had given out when he was twelve, a year after their mother had succumbed to the same kidney disease. Their father hadn't been able to see him die in the same agony Mary had gone through, and had made the difficult decision to finance his organ replacement._

_A year later, Sam started coughing up blood, and they found out his lungs were failing. Again, John Winchester financed an organ replacement, this time, for Sammy's lungs._

_Then, when Dean was sixteen—the same age as Sam now, he reflected, trying to hold back the tears pricking at his eyes—their father had a heart attack. There was no way he could have been saved, even with a transplant. After that, the burden of paying off their organ replacements fell to Dean. He tried, really, he had—once he'd turned eighteen, he did a few things of which he wasn't proud to make sure that Sam stayed alive and out of the crosshairs of the repo men, and all the while only making the minimum payments on his own kidneys, just enough to keep himself alive, too. But now…_

_Ninety days._ Ninety days delinquent gets you repo treatment. _He started going longer and longer between payments, as long as he could to keep them safe, to stretch their money. From every thirty days to thirty-five. Then forty-five. Then fifty. Sixty. Sixty-five. Seventy. Seventy-five._

_By the time he was eighty days between payments, he knew his end was coming. Sam was older now, able to take care of himself better than he could have at twelve, and he needed Dean less. He knew that his only goal was to keep Sam alive as long as possible—and now that Sam could do it himself, it was okay if Dean died._

_He would be okay. Sam was strong. He didn't break. This was how it should be._

_"Dean Winchester."_

_He turned his head, his heart suddenly racing and his fingers scrabbling for the knife in his pocket. There he was—the repo man._

_He was huge, over six feet tall, and Dean couldn't see his face, which only made him more apprehensive. He strode over to Dean, his boots sounding ominously in the dark alleyway, and the glint of the repo man's blade drew his attention for a moment._

_All at once, the repo man lunged, the blade in his left hand slicing through the air, but Dean was quick on his feet—he sidestepped the swing and thrust with his own knife, actually catching the repo man's arm. He let out a grunt of pain but switched to his right hand and swung again. This time, it clipped Dean's left side and he twisted, hissing but keeping his knife out and pointed at the repo man. Again and again, the two traded blows, doing no serious damage to each other but neither tiring. Dean wondered how the repo men were considered deadly but supposed it had something to do with most of their victims being all hopped up on Zydrate, scared out of their minds, completely unarmed, or some combination of the three._

_He was none of these._

_The repo man suddenly knocked Dean's knife out of his hand with a well-aimed kick, and, defenseless, he stumbled backward. In two seconds, the repo man had him shoved face first against the brick wall, the hard surface making his bloody T-shirt ride up. Dean felt the repo man's arm pushing painfully into his back between his shoulder blades and the point of the blade start digging into his lower back. He prayed for a quick end, knowing how unlikely it was. He'd truly fucked himself over at this point—he fought back, and now this repo man had a vendetta against him. There was no way he would die quickly. This guy would want him to suffer, wouldn't even have the decency to slit his throat first. He would be in agony for hours before it was over._

_He might even wake Sammy with his screams. Hell, Sam might wake with first light, and he_ still _wouldn't be dead._

_He realized it had been almost thirty seconds since the repo man had made a move, and he started wondering what was taking so long. Maybe this was part of the torture—the waiting, wondering when it would start. Good psychological tactic, actually._

_"You have been a pain in the ass, Winchester," he heard the repo man growl into his ear._

_"I tend to do that," Dean said, still unable to control his sarcasm, even in the face of death. It wasn't like his situation could get any worse._

_The blade dug in further. "I am going to make you an offer, Winchester. Consider it very carefully."_

__An offer? _Repo men never made offers. They only took lives._

_"Mr. Largo is offering to forgive your debt. In exchange, he wants you to work for him as a repo man."_

_Dean's first reaction was to tell this guy to fuck off, but he suppressed it. This guy was right—he had to consider this. And he did consider it, but essentially selling his soul to save his life wasn't good enough. "Sam's debt, too."_

_"You are not in a position to bargain, Mr. Winchester."_

_"Then kill me. I'm not working for Largo unless he guarantees that Sam's debt is clear."_

_The repo man was silent for a few elastic seconds. "Sam. Your brother, Samuel Winchester?"_

_"Yeah. Him. Lung replacement."_

_Another long silence. "Mr. Largo says that you have courage and selflessness. He respects that. He accepts your terms. Your life and your brother's life in exchange for your service, under two conditions: his current debt is forgiven but any future surgeries will not be covered, and you are not allowed to contact him ever again. Do you accept?"_

_Dean felt his throat tighten. He hadn't expected that. Never see Sammy again? Not even call him? He almost told the repo man to shove it, until he remembered that the alternative was death and he wouldn't see Sam again anyway. Hardly believing the words were coming out of his mouth, he said, "Yes. I accept."_

* * *

**2056**

The four years had made Dean cold. One thing repo training taught you was to sever yourself from your humanity. He had been correct to compare it to selling his soul—after all this time, he felt like he truly didn't have a soul anymore.

Four years and countless repossessions later, he was long past his initial squeamishness, the first instinct of mercy had been trampled, and he could extract an organ in under three minutes. Most repo men had never been in danger of defaulting on whatever organs they'd replaced and had never known the fear that coursed through the veins of the victims, and in a way, Dean hadn't, either. But he still knew better than they did how a panicked person truly reacted, something he employed quite skillfully when a victim tried to run. It was almost frightening, how quickly he adjusted to the whole situation, how he seemed unusually suited to the life.

His only regret was not being able to contact Sam. Sometimes, he lay awake and wondered how he was doing, where he was now. Up until about six months ago, Sam still lived in the apartment they used to share. A letter had been sent to the apartment about a week after Dean had supposedly died, telling Sam that his balance was clear but not saying how or why. Dean could only imagine what Sam thought of it, but he scoured GeneCo's databases weekly for Sam's file, and every week he breathed a sigh of relief to see the file marked _Winchester, Samuel Francis_ still in the "cleared" bracket.

But about six months ago, his file _was_ updated, but just to list his current address as "unknown."

Not that it mattered. Repo men didn't need addresses to find someone.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam slumped against the alley wall, eyes closed and breathing deeply. He wasn't sleeping even though he looked like it. That was the whole point, though.

He was curled up, trying to look as small as possible. This was easier said than done—at twenty, he'd reached an impressive height of seventy-six inches, and even though his life didn't allow him any time to exercise, save for running from the GeneCops, his shoulders were still broad and he cut a fairly impressive figure.

He heard the telltale click of a switchblade being flicked open somewhere off to his left and he kept his eyes closed, tensing imperceptibly. Then the blade was being pressed to his throat as a cruel, unusually high-pitched voice said, "Give me your money."

Sam opened his eyes. His would-be mugger was around five and a half feet tall, with dark, greasy hair and what looked like a week's worth of scruff on his face. Slowly, Sam got to his feet, sliding gingerly up the wall and holding his hands out to the side in a submissive pose. "Easy now. No one needs to get hurt," he said.

"Your money," the mugger said again, looking decidedly less sure of himself now that Sam had straightened up to his full height.

All at once, Sam's arm flew out, catching the other man's wrist, and he twisted until the switchblade fell from the mugger's hand and into Sam's other hand. He spun him around, pinning both the man's arms to his body and shoving the knife against his neck.

The other man began to hyperventilate. "Oh, my God, I'm sorry! Please don't kill me!" he gasped between panicked gasps.

"Calm down," Sam said lazily, freeing the other man's arms to pat down his pockets and fish out the coins he found. "I don't want your life. Just your cash."

"No, no, no, please! Please, don't—"

Not finding any more money in his pockets, Sam released the other man, sliding the blade closed and tucking it behind him, in the waistband of his dirty jeans. "You should have thought of that before you tried to rob me. I could have killed you." Physically, he could have, but he'd never killed anyone before in his life, and he wasn't sure he could actually do it unless his own life was at stake. "Be grateful I'm letting you live." He picked up his worn leather jacket and slid it over his shoulders. Casting a glance through the alley, he saw a few sets of curious eyes on him, but he was unconcerned with them. All the junkies were vaguely interested in everything, but willing to die for nothing—except another hit of Zydrate.

Speaking of which…

He shook his shoulder-length light-brown hair back and walked away from where the former mugger was now huddled on the alley street, whimpering. Near where the alley emptied into the street, next to a rust-flecked Dumpster, his usual dealer, a woman named Ruby, was standing, filing her nails. She, unlike most of the occupants of this alley, wasn't actually homeless. Dealers usually made enough off their black-market trade to afford a shitty apartment near to either the cemeteries or where they dealt. Only a few—most notably, the one who was simply known as "Graverobber," even though just about every dealer, unless they had connections in laboratories, robbed graves for their Zydrate—remained homeless by choice. Probably a smart choice, because when GeneCops cracked down, no matter how infrequently it happened, the homeless were the ones who got away the most easily.

"Hey, Sammy," Ruby said, not looking up as he approached. Only one person around here walked with that much purpose.

He tried not to flinch at the casual way she called him "Sammy." Only one person had ever been allowed to call him that, and he was dead now. It sounded too familiar, cut him too deep. "Ruby."

"The usual?" she asked, finally putting away her nail file.

"Yeah."

"Twenty-five."

"It was twenty only two days ago."

"Supply's running low. GeneCops are getting better about patrolling graveyards. You want it or not, Sammy?"

She probably realized that calling him "Sammy" made him more eager to buy, even if she didn't know why. He certainly wasn't going to tell her, either. But she exploited it. "Yeah," he muttered. He fished out all the money in his pockets. What he had plus what he'd just lifted off his would-be mugger totaled just over twenty-seven dollars. All his money in the world, and he was about to blow it on a hit of Zydrate. That thought gave him pause, until Ruby said in a singsong voice, "Sammy, I'm waiting."

He handed it over wordlessly and she grinned. From her bag, she pulled a glass vial, its contents glowing an unearthly but comforting blue. She pushed the vial into a special gun she'd withdrawn from a pocket and pulled Sam's arm toward her. "Here?" she asked, pressing the gun against his upper arm.

Sam nodded, biting his lip in anticipation.

She pulled the trigger, shooting the painkiller into his body. He hissed, his head falling back, and he stumbled backward until he slammed against the opposite wall and sank to the ground.

Zydrate was powerful and fast-acting, something that made it incredibly addictive. Street Zydrate was supposedly dangerous, but Sam knew better than to believe the GeneCo propaganda. They were the ones who ordered hits on patients who couldn't pay, after all. Still, any company that could create something as good as Zydrate couldn't be all bad.

It helped him forget Dean, after all, made the dull aching in his chest subside to nothing. It made the pain, both physically and emotionally, vanish into nothing. All he'd wanted for the last four years was to forget, not that he was alone, but that he'd ever known what happiness was.

Sam missed his brother. When he'd found that note Dean left him the morning after he died, a hole opened up in his chest. He knew his brother was gone. The last person in the world to care about him had given his life to keep him alive.

Sam didn't know what Dean had done just before he died, but whatever it was, a week later, he got a letter from GeneCo saying that the balance on his lungs was cancelled—in short, he was free from the horror of a repo man coming after him. He couldn't believe it, and for weeks, he waited for a knock to signal the arrival of the repo man. But the weeks faded into months, and he finally realized, a year after the fact, that he really was safe.

But it was meaningless. Dean was gone, and thanks to the trucks that roamed the streets at night, clearing up the corpses, Sam hadn't even been able to give him a proper burial next to their parents.

His thoughts faded into a pleasant buzzing, and the sensation of not being able to feel anything swept over him. He opened his eyes, knowing his pupils would be so dilated that his hazel irises would be a thin ring, and tried to focus on the alley around him. He couldn't keep his eyes open for more than a second or two at a time, and the whole world tilted around him.

Something further down the alley caught his eye, though, and he barely had time to register a set of golden-green eyes, long, slicked-back golden-blond hair, and an impish grin before he shut his eyes. When he opened them again, whoever it was who had been standing there had vanished.

He dismissed it. He couldn't care less. He was floating, drifting through nothing, a strange numbness flowing through him. This was why it was the preferred anesthetic for surgeries now. Since GeneCo patented it twenty years ago, it was first used during surgeries, and then it became the most-prescribed post-surgery painkiller as well. It was bliss.

He got his first taste of Zydrate just before his surgery when he was just nine years old, and the next thing he remembered was a day after the operation. They pumped him full of so much Zydrate in recovery that he ended up missing the rest of the year of school. But once the scars had healed, he remembered, distinctly, how easy it was to just stop taking Zydrate. Between the ages of ten and seventeen, he didn't take it once. It was only after Dean died that he remembered how Zydrate made him forget everything, and it made him long for that escape. Remembering Dean, remembering everything… that pain was too much. The loneliness from not having his brother anymore, the guilt from being the cause of his death—it all swirled around and around in his head, driving him nearly insane before he snapped, went down the street, and bought his first hit of street Zydrate.

He was hooked after that. He was able to control it—sort of—for the first two years or so, but around six months ago, he slipped completely. At that point, when faced with the choice of paying the rent and forced sobriety or being homeless and addicted, he made the choice that, even a year before, would have been unthinkable. After all, what did he care? The only cause he'd had to get up in the morning, the only person who had been worth the effort, was long gone.

He could look down on the junkies down the alley all he wanted, but deep down, he knew he was just like them. It was just one more thing Zydrate helped him to forget.


	3. Chapter 3

The boy named Sammy stumbled backward until he smacked into the bricks behind him and slowly sank to the ground. He watched Sammy carefully, saw how slowly he blinked, how his eyes lingered closed longer as the Zydrate took hold. And then, inexplicably, Sammy's hazel eyes turned in his direction and he looked like he was trying to focus in an unusual moment of clarity.

But his eyes closed again, and he dashed away.

He shimmied up the fire escape and scaled two more flights of stairs. He wedged his fingers between the door and the frame, dislodging the pipe he used to keep the door from clicking back into place, and darted into the hallway. He swung the pipe idly, his scurry becoming more of a stroll as he went. A left turn at the T in the hallway, down four more doors—apartment 4-J, his home. He pulled his key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

"Cas?" he called, but his younger brother's voice didn't return his call. That was typical, though. His brother didn't usually return from wherever he was until morning.

Gabriel went to the room that served as the kitchen, dining room, and living room and turned on the tap. A gush of nasty brown water issued forth, but in a moment, it resolved itself to a cleaner clear. Still, he gave it another ten or fifteen seconds before he started filling the sink with hot water and a splash of bleach. With a cloud of steam rising into the air, he rolled up the right leg of his jeans and unstrapped a collection of a dozen glass vials. He set them, one by one, in the water, and repeated the process with the vials around his left leg. Once all twenty-four vials were submerged, he turned off the water and went to his room.

He could only imagine what his brother was doing right now, but he had a feeling he wouldn't be happy. Castiel would more often than not come home with a small roll of twenties in his pocket and weary but satisfied look in his eye. Gabriel didn't like thinking about how his brother got that money, but it was why he told him to stay far from the South Side.

Well, that, and he didn't want the junkies he sold to discovering he had a brother. Some of them got desperate enough to contemplate using Castiel as leverage, and Gabriel did not want harm to come to him.

Once he'd flopped back onto the mattress on the floor, he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander.

He and Castiel could be considered fairly lucky. Their parents had both died in the plague, neither willing to finance their organ replacements, and Gabriel thought that maybe his parents knew what was going to happen with widespread repossessions. But he never succumbed to any organ failure. He had never undergone a surgery. Gabriel had never taken a hit of Zydrate, either. But Castiel's heart had failed when he was fifteen, giving him that first taste of Zydrate, and now Gabriel suspected he was close to crossing the line from recreational user to full-on Z-head. But Castiel kept his habit out of the apartment, and as long as he wasn't "smacking" at home, there wasn't much he could do about it.

Most people wouldn't think he and Castiel were brothers or even related. For one thing, Castiel was taller than him—Gabriel was barely five-foot-eight, and Castiel was five-eleven. For another, Castiel was all dark hair and Zydrate-blue eyes and pale, sunless skin, but Gabriel's palette could be summed up with one word: gold. His hair was golden-blond (when it was clean), his eyes could be described as golden-green, and he had the barest suggestion of a tan from the time he spent outside, mostly in graveyards. There wasn't a whole lot of sun around anymore, but whenever there was, Gabriel could be found on the roof, soaking it up.

He wished he had been born even fifty years earlier—being a drug dealer was _not_ what he imagined for himself when he was eight, and he certainly never expected his little brother to whore himself out for a few dollars and a hit of the glow. He never wanted this life for either of them, but they were making ends meet and Castiel was still making his payments, so…

Was it worth it? Hell, no, but they had no other choice. They were caught in this trap, and Gabriel wasn't going to let his brother die.

At least his dealing was a fairly lucrative gig. He could have afforded a less shitty apartment with what he brought in, but any extra money he made, he saved in case Castiel couldn't make a payment or he—God forbid—needed a transplant later on.

Maybe, once Castiel finally paid off his heart, Gabriel would haul him to a Zydrate Addicts Support Group meeting. Maybe, once all this was behind them, he'd be able to quit dealing and Castiel could stop selling himself and they could move out of this godforsaken city and they could get legitimate jobs, a nice place, somewhere far away from here, far from GeneCo, who seemed only to manufacture their organs to fail.

But even as he hoped for that future, a distant, shining, unattainable paradigm of happiness, he knew it was futile. Castiel would need another transplant in a few years—he was only three years away from hitting the ten-year shelf life of his replacement heart. The cycle would start again, and Gabriel would have to keep dealing and Castiel would keep letting people use him and they would never move out of this shitty apartment unless it was to move into a shittier one and Gabriel would just spend the rest of his life waiting for Castiel to miss one too many payments or his heart to just fail before he died. And then Gabriel would fall apart, because no matter what flaws Castiel had—and he had many; he was obnoxious, a junkie, manipulative—he was still his brother, and he loved him.

Gabriel sighed and ran his hands over his eyes. He hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in seven years, not since the day Castiel had that heart attack and they'd been forced to sign away his life to save it. Ever since that day, it felt like he was constantly looking over his shoulder, even though he wasn't the one in danger.

Even though every damn day, he wished he was. He wished he could take this affliction from Castiel because he used to be so sweet; he used to be an angel. But the glow and the surgery had changed him. It was like the replacement heart had changed his personality, like he had a completely different person for a brother. It wasn't fair. Some days, he wanted to just grab Castiel by the shoulders and shake him, screaming in his face, "What happened to you? Where's the Cas I used to know?"

But he couldn't. It's not like this was really his fault. He didn't ask for his heart to give out. He didn't ask to be burdened with this. It wasn't truly his fault that he'd spent nearly every day of the last seven years in a Zydrate-fueled haze.

So he would protect Castiel, who couldn't protect himself anymore. Gabriel was starting to get the feeling that Castiel was only making payments for his sake, not for actually wanting to live, and it distressed him, but at least Castiel was making the damn payments. At least he hadn't completely forgotten his brother. At least he had _some_ reason to try to stay alive.

A bang like a gunshot sounded through the apartment, and Gabriel sat straight up on his mattress. It was the front door slamming open, and his fingers scrabbled for the knife he kept under his pillow. He relaxed a moment later, though, when his ears finally caught the sound of Castiel's uneven footsteps and his drugged laughter, along with a vaguely familiar female giggle. He rose and went to what served as the front room, where Castiel leaned against a wall, hand over his eyes and still laughing, and a red-haired woman—Anna, he realized a moment later—was closing the door behind them, giggling as well.

"You're back early," Gabriel said, crossing his arms and trying to keep the ice out of his voice.

"Oh, calm down," Castiel said. He seemed unable to balance on his own two feet, swaying on the spot for a moment before slumping back against the wall, snickering as he did so. "If you're gonna be all pissy over nothing, we can go somewhere else. Right, Anna?"

Anna's giggles had subsided, and there was simply a blissful smile on her face. She didn't seem to hear Castiel's question and her eyes stared into the distance, focused on nothing. Yeah, they were definitely coming down from a Zydrate high.

"I don't have any more Z," Gabriel said. "Sold it all."

Castiel shot him such an insulted look that Gabriel immediately regretted his words. They'd already discussed this—Castiel could buy all the Zydrate he wanted to outside of the apartment, away from their block, but Gabriel wouldn't give or sell any to him. It would defeat the purpose, really. That was also the main reason Gabriel didn't use, either—the first rule of dealing was not to get hooked on your own supply.

"Good thing we don't need any more, then." Castiel reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small wad of bills. "Here. My half of the rent. You don't want to know what I had to do to get it." Still glaring, he threw the cash at Gabriel, who caught it easily. Castiel brushed past him as he started toward his room.

"Cas—" Gabriel started, reaching for Castiel, but his brother jerked his arm away and fixed him with another withering look. Gabriel used to think his eyes were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, all deep blue and incredibly expressive, but now they were only filled with anger and frustration. It cut at him, deeper than any surgeon's scalpel ever could.

"Fuck you," Castiel spat. "Come on, Anna." He turned away, seeming to sense that she would follow, and they went to his room.

The door slammed behind them, and Gabriel could only stand there, wondering how their lives had come to this.


	4. Chapter 4

After Castiel slammed the door behind them, he and Anna curled up on his mattress and fell asleep. Or, rather, Anna fell asleep, and Castiel lay awake, still seething.

Where the fuck did Gabriel get off, making that "I don't have any more Z" comment? Did he really think they only reason he came back was to score? He was a fucking idiot.

All Gabriel saw him as was a freeloader, even though he paid rent and brought in money, just like him. And that was on top of his payments, too. _What an asshole_ , Castiel thought bitterly. Sure, maybe how he made his money wasn't as respectable as how Gabriel made _his_ —and how sad was it that the comparison was to a fucking drug dealer?—but at least it was better than getting evicted or repossessed. "Fucking bastard," he muttered out loud, knowing Anna wouldn't wake up. When she fell into a Zydrate-induced sleep, she was out. Probably why it became such a popular anesthetic. You could cut into someone, shake them, scream in their ear, and they still wouldn't wake up, not for hours.

He resisted the desire to get up and start pacing. It would do him no good, and Gabriel might hear him and try to come in and talk to him again. Frankly, Castiel didn't care what he had to say—he was a fucking burden to his older brother, and every word out of his mouth reaffirmed that sentiment. Every night, he was saying something along the lines of "Why do you do this? Where did my brother go? When are you going to stop earning your money like that?" It drove Castiel nuts. How _dare_ Gabriel judge him?

They had a tense sort of understanding: Gabriel would keep his comments about Castiel's drug use to himself if Castiel didn't use in the apartment. Of course, Castiel couldn't care less about the rules—he finally rolled out from under the arm Anna had flung over him and dug his last vial of Zydrate and the gun out of her bag. He leaned against the mattress, shrugging out of his ratty tan trench coat and pressed the gun against his forearm.

He pulled the trigger and the last hit of Zydrate shot straight into his vein. A slow smile spreading across his face, he dragged himself back onto the mattress, back under Anna's arm, and slipped into sleep.

* * *

When he woke up next, a beam of fading light was striking his face, and he pulled himself into a sitting position to tug the curtains a little more closed. He turned and noted with a small amount of dissatisfaction that Anna was still out. She couldn't still be high—it had easily been over twelve hours since they'd come home. He nudged her shoulder.

"Hey. Hey, I'm hungry. Wake up."

Anna's eyes fluttered open. She yawned, stretching her arms over her head. "Yeah, me too. You got food here?"

Castiel shrugged. "Maybe." He picked himself up off the mattress, went to the drawer that served as his dresser, and pulled out a semi-clean shirt. He tugged the one he was wearing over his head and dropped it to the floor before donning the new one. "Come on, let's go look."

"What time is it?" she asked, finally climbing to her feet. Her long, limp red hair stuck up in about ten different directions and Castiel made a note to make sure she brushed it before they left. His hair probably wasn't much better, but it was always unruly and he found that it gave him a bit of an edge on the street.

"I don't know. Around six maybe." He led the way to the kitchen and checked the fridge. "Feel like burritos?"

Anna's brown eyes were wide as she looked around the kitchen as if she'd never seen it before. She twirled a few stray strands of hair around her finger. "Um, yeah, sure."

Castiel pulled two shrink-wrapped burritos out of the freezer, unwrapped them, tossed them on a plate, and put them in the microwave. He set the timer for two minutes and hit start.

"Where's Gabe?" Anna asked abruptly.

Castiel immediately recoiled at the sound of his brother's name. He snapped, "Don't know. Don't care."

She appeared unfazed by the harshness of his tone. She merely continued to examine every crack in the walls.

Castiel continued to fume as the burritos cooked. Even after the microwave beeped and he pulled their food out, he offered Anna a burrito wordlessly, and they ate in silence, just standing in the kitchen. Once they were finished, he set the plate in the empty sink and went back to his room to grab his coat. "Ready to go?" he asked finally, turning around and seeing that Anna was still trailing behind him.

She nodded, and Castiel remembered her hair. "Brush your hair first."

"Huh? Oh." She hunted for her purse and pulled out a brush. She tugged it roughly through her hair for about ten seconds then dropped it back in her bag. "Okay, ready."

Castiel nodded and they left the room, left the apartment. Down the hallway, down the stairs, out the door of the building, down the street toward the East Side, and forty-five minutes later, they'd arrived at their usual hangout.

The sun was just setting, but already, a few of the other streetwalkers had already arrived. Meg paced the sidewalk, clutching her bag tightly, and Michael and Luce were huddled in a corner between the wall and a Dumpster. Rachel leaned against the bricks, smoking a cigarette and coming down from a Zydrate high while Balthazar approached from the opposite side of the street, flicking his lighter.

Castiel nodded quickly at Luce, who, as usual, fixed him with a suspicious glare. Both he and Michael had bright blue eyes, just like Castiel, but Castiel pulled in more cash because his dark, messy hair and pale complexion gave him a more innocent quality. He was also only twenty-two, whereas Luce was twenty-seven. Even stranger, though, was that Michael was supposedly almost thirty, but he barely passed for eighteen. He had a thin, young-looking face and full lips that seemed to just be made for the kind of work they did.

Still, Luce only glared at _him_ like that because Michael and Luce had been friends for years, and Castiel was a relative newcomer.

For about an hour, everyone just waited for the night to begin, no one saying much of anything to anyone else—except Michael and Luce, who often hissed things to each other, but too quietly to be heard by anyone else—until the first of the GeneCo trash trucks rolled by. The back was empty save for one man, who was quite alive and just using the truck to get around. He had long, greasy hair and thick-soled boots, and Castiel felt he knew immediately who he was: this must be The Graverobber, the best dealer in the city. He'd practically spawned an empire on his own wit, and even more, he was rumored to be sleeping with the Amber Sweet, Rotti Largo's own daughter.

Admittedly, it was in exchange for street Zydrate before the surgeries she had nearly every day, but still.

The Graverobber grinned at them, giving them a half-wave and blowing Anna a kiss. She giggled and slumped against Castiel.

"Was that—?" Balthazar asked, staring after the truck.

"Yeah, I think so," Castiel said. "Graverobber, right?"

"Yeah. I never saw him in person before."

Castiel shrugged and went back to scanning the street. They didn't have to wait too much longer before a limousine pulled up and the window rolled down. Castiel recognized the plates, so he wasn't too surprised when he heard Crowley's voice call from inside, "Hey, Michael."

Michael's head snapped up; he obviously hadn't been paying attention to the street. Once he realized who was talking, he smiled and sauntered toward the limo. "Hey, Jer. How's it going?"

"Get in," Crowley said, ignoring the question and opening the door. Michael climbed in, slammed the door, and rolled the window up, and in a few moments, it was heading down the street.

From there, everything moved faster. Most of the regular customers showed up within the next hour, Balthazar disappearing next with a man who called himself Raphael, followed by Rachel and Anna with a guy named Zachariah, and finally Alastair arrived for Castiel.

Alastair was, in a word, creepy, and everything about him gave Castiel the chills. It wouldn't surprise him to learn that he moonlighted as a repo man—he could be cruel and sadistic and the trick was to not let him know how frightening he found him. Castiel only made the mistake of letting his fear show once. After that, he learned how to keep his face neutral.

He dealt with it, though. Even though Alastair had some of the sickest fantasies he'd ever heard, he paid extraordinarily well for them.

By the time he got back to the alley four hours later, Michael had returned and Luce was gone, and Anna was huddled by Michael's legs, letting him absently stroke her hair. Meg was gone, too, and he heard Anna mumble something about how some guy had picked up both her and Luce.

Castiel just stumbled toward the Dumpster and emptied the contents of his stomach. Michael appeared unfazed. "Alastair again?"

Castiel nodded, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his trench coat. "Sick fuck. Tied me up and…" He couldn't finish his sentence.

Sometimes, he thought that Gabriel was right. There _had_ to be a better way. But he'd never admit it to Gabriel—no way in Hell. No, what he needed right now was a hit of Zydrate to help him forget.

And just as he was thinking that, their usual dealer strolled down the street.

"Hey, Chuck," Anna said. She slowly pulled herself to her feet and Castiel helped her stumble to him.

"Anna. Cas. Same as usual?"

Castiel glanced toward the street as a truck full of GeneCops rolled by. It didn't look to be stopping—they probably thought, from the way Anna leaned against him, that Castiel was her pimp, and prostitution wasn't illegal—but he still waited until they passed before saying, "I'm gonna need four."

Chuck let out a low whistle. "Hard night, huh?"

"You have no idea."

"Anna?"

"Usual for me."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, normally, my going price would be one-fifty for both of you, but I'll cut you a deal—only because you look like you've been through the ringer, Cas. One-twenty for the whole thing."

"Deal." Castiel pulled four limp twenties out of his pocket and nudged Anna.

"Huh?"

"Give him forty."

"Oh. Right." She dug around in her bag for a moment until she pulled out two tens and a twenty, along with the now-empty vials from yesterday.

Chuck counted out the money quickly then smiled, pocketing it and the vials Anna had just handed over. "Righty-o. Just a moment." There was a clinking of glass and then he pressed two vials of Zydrate into Anna's hand and handed four to Castiel. "Enjoy, you two." He brushed past them and went to talk to Michael.

Castiel and Anna retreated to the alleyway, away from the street, and sat against the wall. "Got the gun?" he asked, and she nodded.

"Here," she said, pulling it out of her purse and handing it to him. "You go first. Alastair's a dick."

Castiel shivered, trying to force every memory of Alastair out of his head, and loaded a vial into the gun. He tugged the collar of his shirt down, pressed the gun to his chest, and pulled the trigger.

That blissful nothing slipped over him again, and he only distantly felt Anna tugging the gun out of his hand. He forgot all about everything Alastair had done to him, everything Gabriel said to him, every nasty look Luce had ever shot him. He stopped worrying. Everything was going to be okay.


	5. Chapter 5

Gabriel gathered up the vials he'd left soaking the night before and slunk out of the apartment as quietly as he could so as not to wake Castiel and Anna. It was around two in the afternoon, but the sun was just a hazy blob in the sky as he departed the building in his usual way, through the fire escape.

First thing on his list today was stopping off at Harvelle's Diner for some lunch—actually, it would be breakfast for him—and to see if Ellen or Ash had any information for him. They were usually the ones who knew where the GeneCops were heading that day, where they were patrolling, when they were planning a raid. This was especially important today, because Gabriel had to go restock his Zydrate supply and he didn't feel like putting Ellen's daughter Jo at risk—she was his contact in the labs, a Gentern who fed her mother and Ash information and smuggled him Zydrate.

"Hey, Loki, how're you doing today?" Ellen asked as soon as he walked through the door, using his street name. It was always better not to use real names when you were a dealer. That was one of his three personal rules.

"Pretty good, El. What's the word?"

"Everything's looking clear today, hon. Boys are probably going to be staying quiet unless some major shit goes down, but I doubt that. Still, watch your back."

Gabriel nodded. "Of course."

Ellen smiled. "What can I get you? The usual?"

"Yeah, that sounds great." He tried to return her smile, but Castiel's attitude had pretty much exhausted him emotionally. Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last, he wished their lives could be different.

_Rule one: Don't use real names._

"Hon, are you sure you're okay?"

He sighed and shook his head. "No, but it's a long and complicated story."

"I'm sorry." She slid a glass of soda toward him and patted his hand before nodding back at the kitchen, signaling the cook to start cooking Gabriel's order. Everyone knew him here, but no one really _knew_ him. They didn't know he had a brother. They didn't know where he lived. They didn't know anything about him save for what they could actually see: He was short, he was golden, and he went by the name Loki. "Anything you want to talk about?"

He shook his head again. "Can't. It's…" He looked back at her and saw nothing but genuine concern in her eyes. His resistance crumbled. He just needed to let go. "It's my brother. He's been… Well, let's just say he's been earning his money on the streets. I'm worried about him. I don't think he cares if he lives anymore. One day, he's gonna miss a payment and…" He shook his head. "And he's all strung-out on Z half the time—and I know, I'm a Z dealer, but I don't sell to him," he added quickly, before Ellen could say anything.

"You're selling to _someone's_ brother, though."

Gabriel nodded, staring into his glass for a few moments before taking a sip. "Yeah, I know. But I gotta make money somehow, right? And I can't do what he does. For one thing, I'm not pretty enough," he half-joked.

Ellen gave him a small smile and rubbed his arm for a moment. "I'm sure things will be okay, hon. You gotta trust him. Maybe he knows what he's doing."

He absently flipped a coin between his fingers, nodding. "Maybe." He wasn't convinced, though.

* * *

A half-hour later, he slunk out of Harvelle's and toward his usual graveyard haunt. He hated graveyards—couldn't stand the stink, couldn't stand the death everywhere, couldn't stand the hopeless air around them—but he had no choice tonight. He wasn't due to pick up an order from Jo for another three days so if he wanted to sell anything tonight, he had to go for the alternate source.

Fortunately, the plague had made single-user grave plots almost unheard-of. Most people were dropped in mass graves, which were cemented up after they were filled. They filled surprisingly quickly, but there were always a few unsealed graves—all you had to do was follow the stench.

Gabriel followed that stench to the nearest mass grave. A quick glance around confirmed what he already suspected: there was no one around. Other dealers wouldn't start coming around for several hours, which was the one benefit to sneaking in shortly after three in the afternoon. On the downside, he was in the open, highly visible, in a fairly-bright mid-afternoon, and the decay filled the air, settling in his nostrils and in his mouth, almost choking him.

He typically showered immediately after visiting one of the graveyards. He hated that stench and wanted it off him as soon as possible. He also soaked his clothes in vinegar the moment he got home—vinegar got rid of everything—and, once he'd showered, he washed his clothes and doused them in some air freshener.

The whole process took about a minute per vial, so he was in and out of the graveyard in just under a half an hour. Remove the vial, grab the syringe, pick a corpse (any corpse), push the needle up its nose, extract the Zydrate from its brain, remove the needle, push the glow out and into the vial, cap the vial, stow the vial. Rinse, repeat. Et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum. He absolutely hated this part of the job, but he had no choice.

He held up the last vial, now filled with the glow, and wondered what the appeal was. He was never one for running from his problems—he tackled them head-on, with extreme prejudice, and he conquered them. From what he understood, most people used Zydrate—or the surgeries they had while on the Zydrate—to escape their problems, as if they'd be gone when they came down and woke up.

And then he wondered if he'd feel the same if he'd needed a surgery, if he'd had that first dangerous hit of Zydrate. He'd never tried it before, and he had no intention of starting now.

_Rule two: Don't use your own drugs._

He replaced that last vial and slipped out of the graveyard, unknowingly missing the GeneCops by a matter of minutes.

* * *

Gabriel's heart stuttered to a halt and then quickly spun up again, revving like a motor when he got to his usual alley three hours later to discover the junkie from the night before, the one named Sammy, had migrated to his alley, sitting against a wall. It wasn't too far from Ruby's alley, but he tried to avoid other dealers and hoped she wouldn't see this as him swiping her customers—although she was nowhere to be found. Still, it was early.

Apparently, Sammy was a homeless junkie, because he was still wearing the same ripped plaid shirt as last night and the same jeans with the hole worn in the knee. Gabriel swallowed hard at the lost-puppy look on his face and turned away. He did have other customers, after all.

From seven that night to three the next morning, nearly a dozen customers came by, buying up all but his last two vials of Zydrate. The whole time, Gabriel tried not to notice that Sammy hadn't left the alley, but he felt the heat of his gaze on the back of his neck. _What the actual fuck?_ he demanded silently, until finally, Sammy got up and walked over to him. Gabriel attempted to ignore him, but Sammy grew impatient quickly and said, "Hey."

Gabriel finally turned. "Yes?" he asked with exaggerated sweetness, flashing him a grin.

Sammy nodded, like Gabriel had confirmed something. "I saw you last night. The alley on Fifth. Ruby deals out of there."

"Yeah, and?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, Sammy, this is _my_ alley. Like it?" He spread his arms wide, as if he thought dealing drugs was the highest goal anyone could achieve. "It's not much, but it's mine."

Sammy flinched. "Don't… don't call me 'Sammy.' It's 'Sam.' And how did you know my name?"

"I heard Ruby call you Sammy."

"I don't like it."

"Why not? There's nothing wrong with it." _Rule three, rule three_ , an annoying voice chanted in his head. He was starting to care too much.

"It reminds me of someone I'd rather not remember."

"Oh." The smile hitched off Gabriel's face. "I'm sorry."

Sam shook his head, amplifying the lost-puppy look he'd taken on. Gabriel had the sudden desire to pull him into a tight hug, but Sam had eight inches and about a hundred and ten pounds on him, and he had a feeling Sam wouldn't appreciate being hugged by a drug dealer. "You didn't know," he murmured.

"So why did you move out of her alley?" _Rule three, rule three._

He shrugged. "Just felt like a change of scenery."

 _Of course he'd end up in_ my alley. He'd managed to go all day without thinking about him, but now that he was right here, he could see clearly how complex a mix of colors his eyes were, green and brown and just a bit of blue combining to be the prettiest hazel he'd ever seen in his life. Already regretting the words before they even left his mouth, he said, "Well, can I get you anything? I got two vials of Z left."

"I'll take one."

"Twenty bucks." He'd been selling them for twenty-five all night, but something stopped him from going full price on him.

Sam smiled and dug a twenty out of his pocket. It was probably all the money he had, and Gabriel suddenly felt guilty for taking his money even though he'd never felt guilty about selling to someone before. He didn't like feeling guilty, especially when he wasn't the one in the wrong—it was Sam, for having those goddamn eyes.

He shoved the twenty in his pocket and handed Sam the vial and a Zydrate gun—he remembered seeing Ruby administer the drug herself, meaning Sam didn't have all the Z paraphernalia, but he absolutely refused to help any user spark.

Sam seemed to sense this, though, and shot the drug into his arm himself. Gabriel watched the taller man stagger backward as the drug took hold, and he grabbed Sam's arm and helped guide him back into a sitting position. As soon as he was sure Sam wasn't getting up, Gabriel climbed into the lid of a Dumpster and perched there, watching him to make sure no one took advantage of his drugged state. _Rule three, rule three_ kept running through his head.

_Rule three: Don't get involved with junkies._


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel pulled his arm over his eyes to try to block out the meager light pouring in through the slightly-parted curtains. He lay there, confused— _When did I get home last night?_ —and lifted his arm after a few moments to look around.

Anna wasn't here, which didn't actually surprise him. Some days she came over, and other days she didn't. Last night, she probably crashed at Michael and Lucifer's place—where it was, he had no idea, but she'd stayed there before so he figured it was a real location. It didn't bother him, though. He was generally too strung-out to care.

Finally realizing sleep was futile, he rolled off his mattress and pulled himself to his feet. He felt a little numb around the edges, a sure result of the very tail end of a Zydrate high, but at this hour, it meant he must have sparked right before he fell asleep. He vaguely recalled sparking in the alley, too, which meant he'd had at least two hits last night, possibly three. _What happened?_

It came back in a rush, and suddenly, he regretted trying to remember.

Alastair, of course. That sick fuck. He had a sadistic streak a mile wide and really liked taking it out on Castiel. Something about how innocent he looked, even though anyone who knew him knew he was far from innocent, just made Alastair want to break him. And Castiel let him because he paid well.

He shuddered. The one good thing about tonight was that it was pretty much guaranteed that Alastair wouldn't be back. He typically came around every two or three days so Castiel had a little time to recover—physically and emotionally—before he came for him again.

He absently rubbed his wrists where the rope had dug into his skin, starting to pace around his room. His stomach growled a bit and he accidentally kicked a vial of Zydrate across the floor as he went. A full vial.

He picked it up and then almost groaned in frustration—Anna still had the gun. _Now_ he remembered why he kept her around. He had his own somewhere, but he didn't relish the idea of hunting for it.

It became an internal debate of how much he needed to get high versus how lazy he felt. It was close, but when he remembered all the disgusting things Alastair had done to him, his burn for Zydrate won out.

He rummaged through the drawer, throwing clothes out in a flurry to litter across his already-messy floor. Shirts, pants, socks all went flying as he dug down to the bottom of the drawer, his fingernails scraping against wood, and he realized it wasn't there. He looked around the room to see if he could catch a glint of light off the metal, but there was nothing. _Under the mattress?_

Castiel dropped to his knees and pushed his hand under the mattress. There was nothing close to the edge, so he shoved his arm in up to his shoulder and felt around some more and then—

Just _there_ , almost to the wall, his fingers made contact with something cold and slick and distinctly Zydrate-gun-shaped. _Score!_ He dragged it out from under the mattress and wiped it off on the closest shirt before jacking the vial into the slot. He lined up the end with his chest, just over his heart, and pulled the trigger.

The tension melted away and he slumped against the mattress. He smiled sleepily and let the gun with the now-empty vial slide from his fingers. Shooting Zydrate directly into your heart was the quickest way to get high, and it was something he did fairly often.

He let himself float away, and it was a good three hours before he moved again.

* * *

When he next fully regained consciousness, he could hear Gabriel moving around in the kitchen. He waited for his brother to call for him, but he never did, something that suited Castiel just fine. The door slammed a few minutes later, and then he stirred from his place on the floor, gathering up the few vials still scattered around his room.

Something started eating at the back of his mind. There was something he knew he was forgetting even as he changed out of his shirt and jeans in favor of a cleaner set and pulled his ratty trench coat back on. He went to the kitchen to find something to eat, still trying to figure out what he could possibly have forgotten. While he waited for a slice of pizza to reheat in the microwave, he wandered around the apartment to see if anything would job his memory, but nothing helped. Finally, as the microwave beeped, he gave up, sighing, thinking that if it was important enough, he'd remember eventually.

As he left the apartment, he realized another good reason he kept Anna around: the long walk from home to the alley seemed considerably shorter when there was someone else there. Even more than that, though, was the safety in numbers that he just didn't have when he walked alone. Despite the knife he carried in his pocket, he still felt anxious as he went, knowing his reaction time was dulled because of the Zydrate. Castiel just hoped it wasn't obvious how easy of a target he was.

He made it to the alley fortunately without incident (he'd started breathing heavily and gripping he knife tightly the closer he got; the alley was in a particularly rough part of town and street walkers had been known to go missing or end up dead from what was clearly not a repo man's surgical precision) and saw Anna leaning up against Michael's legs, both he and Lucifer seemingly oblivious to her presence. Balthazar was a few feet further down from them, in the process of changing his shirt, and Castiel caught sight of the scars on his chest from heart and lung replacements.

_Surgery._

His heart.

 _Oh, fuck what day is it?_ Panic rising from his stomach and into his throat, he cornered Anna, Michael, and Lucifer. "What's today's date?" he demanded, fighting to keep the wild, alarmed look out of his voice and his eyes.

Lucifer gave him an "I don't give a fuck" face but Michael blinked. "The sixth? September sixth? Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's it."

 _September? It's freaking_ September _?_ He turned, terror still running through him but a sick sort of resignation following it. September sixth.

He'd made his last payment on May thirty-first.

He had officially defaulted on his heart.

* * *

Within the next day, or two at the most, he knew there would be a repo man coming after him. It was unavoidable—he was screwed. No, beyond screwed. He was as good as dead.

"Cas?" Anna asked, staring up at him. "What's wrong?"

Castiel swallowed, struggling to keep the desperation and the panic at bay. "I, uh… I have to go." There was no sense in working tonight—all the money in the world would be useless now. He'd had ninety days—until August twenty-ninth—and he missed the last day by over a week. It usually took GeneCo about that long to process defaulted claims, with a day or two grace period to assign a repo man to the cases and wait for them to handle all their other jobs. It was pretty much guaranteed that, by tomorrow night, he would be dead.

At least it wouldn't take long. A strange calm overtook him, a sort of wearied acceptance of his fate. It was inevitable, really, that he would be dead by tomorrow night, so what was the point of fighting it?

"Cas, what's wrong?" Anna repeated, getting shakily to her feet.

Suddenly overcome, he turned back to her and pulled her into a tight hug. "I'm sorry I wasn't a better friend. I wish I could make it up to you." He released her and focused on Michael. "Try to make sure she stays out of trouble, okay?"

Even Lucifer was looking concerned now. "What's going on?"

"I…" He let out a sad sort of chuckle. "I defaulted on my payments. Eight days ago. So I'm probably going to be dead tomorrow."

"Oh." There was definite sadness behind his formerly cold gaze, and he nodded. "I'm sorry to hear that. Sorry I was such a dick to you."

Castiel smiled, relieved that Lucifer was actually showing some emotion besides utter disdain toward him. "Thanks." He turned to Balthazar. "Watch out for yourself. Don't let Alastair get anyone else in this alley, okay? He'd a sick bastard and I don't want anyone else hurt." He fished the four glass vials out of his pocket. "And give these back to Chuck for me, will you?"

Balthazar nodded slowly and then hugged Castiel. "I'm sorry, Cas. We'll miss you."

Castiel half-smiled and started the long walk back home. Now there was nothing left for him to do but wait and hope that the ending would be quick.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam wrapped his arms around his knees and huddled in on himself. The last thing he remembered from the night before was the golden-haired dealer pressing a Zydrate gun into his hand and sparking right there in the middle of the alley. When he regained consciousness, the sky was a hazy, polluted gray indicating daytime and the dealer was nowhere to be found.

Hunger gnawed at his stomach, so he slunk out of the alley, keeping his head down, and headed to the Zydrate Support Center, which generally served as a homeless shelter except patrons weren't allowed to stay there. It offered free Zydrate counseling, a hot meal, showers, and laundry services, all of which Sam needed at the moment (although he really wouldn't admit the first one to himself).

Sam took a shower first, then found a robe and started up his laundry. While he waited for it to finish, he went to the cafeteria and got some food, relieved to see that he wasn't the only one just wearing a robe around here. They were soft and fluffy, comfortable and clean, and every passing moment made him happier that the Zydrate Support Center existed. He felt a lot better after eating, and after he'd taken his tray back up to turn it in and went to take his laundry out of the dryer, he suddenly realized just how fucked-up his life had gotten.

He was fucking _homeless_. His only clothes were the ones he was wearing right now. He couldn't feed himself, and what little money he got just went to buy street Zydrate, which was not only dangerous, but illegal. His life was a total mess.

He heaved a sigh and started back toward the alley. He wondered if this was what other addicts went through, if the sheer hopelessness of their situations just kept them hooked on their drug, because it was easier to be an addict than a recovering addict. It was easier to let the drug wipe your mind than it was to face your problems and actually do something about them. Did he really think he could do this? He'd lived like this for a few months and was getting by alright—certainly not like he had before he basically evicted himself, but he was still alive, right? It was going to be difficult to end this when all he really wanted was the mind-blanking sting of a Zydrate gun and the blissful nothingness of the glow.

But this life wasn't what Dean would have wanted for him. No, no matter how much it hurt, he had to remember that. He had to remember that Dean had probably given his life to save him from his same fate and he couldn't live like this. It would be an insult to his memory, and he was being selfish by just thinking of all the negative things that had happened. After all, his debt _had_ been cleared, hadn't it? If anything, he had a better shot of making his recovery than the other addicts on this street. He didn't have to worry about paying off his organs. All he had to do was feed himself.

He could do it. He _had_ to do it.

He got back to the alley—the new alley, the one in which he'd seen that golden-haired dealer—shortly after nightfall and almost smacked himself. This was stupid—if he saw that dealer again, he'd would almost definitely buy from him. That dealer, whatever the Hell his name was, he was strangely attractive, almost preternaturally so. It was something nameless and dangerous in his eyes and even though he was a good eight inches shorter than Sam, he had no doubt that he was stronger than he looked, stronger than him. Those eyes… if he saw them again, it just might make him want more than the Zydrate he peddled.

He started to get to his feet and leave the alley but just as he turned around, there he was. _Damn it!_ He tried to back away without being noticed, but he was a Winchester—he didn't have that kind of luck. "Sam," that silky voice called to him. "Fancy seeing you here."

He wanted to run far from him, but he couldn't because somehow, deep down, he just knew he needed him. "Sorry," he managed. "I don't know your name."

"Loki," he answered, so quickly that Sam knew he was lying.

"Okay… _Loki_. Look, I don't know what you want from me, but I just want to be left alone, okay?"

Loki crossed his arms over his chest, somehow managing to look annoyed while smirking. "I'm sorry, did you get the impression that I was stalking you? Because honestly, I got that impression from you. You _did_ move into the alley I deal in, after all."

Sam was floored for a moment. "Yeah, well, I'm not interested in buying again."

Loki raised his eyebrows. "Really? Impressive. What happened?"

Sam didn't answer right away. He was trying to decide just how much to tell him and trying to remind himself—under Loki's intense golden gaze that made his resistance incredibly shaky—that he was really going to try to kick this Zydrate habit. Finally, he said, "I had a moment of clarity."

Still keeping one eyebrow quirked up, Loki hopped onto the lid of a trashcan and waited patiently for Sam to explain. Finally, the younger man heaved a sigh.

"My brother, Dean. He died four years ago. He had a set of kidneys and he defaulted on his payments." Something behind Loki's eyes softened and he cocked his head to the side as Sam went on. "He did it to save me. He had to try to pay off his kidneys and my lungs and he made more payments for me than he did for himself. And I don't know what he did before he died, but the next week, I got a letter from GeneCo saying that the debt on my lungs was cleared. I _know_ we had nowhere near enough money to pay it off on our own, so I really can't figure it out, but somehow, he saved me. And I… Well, after he died, I just kind of lost it. He was my only family left. My mom died when I was seven from the same kidney disease that Dean had, and then my dad died when I was twelve from a heart attack. Dean took care of both of us for four years. He was everything to me. And I just kind of realized that this isn't the life he wanted for me. He didn't mean for me to have this life when he saved me. And even though I've been trying to forget him, trying to forget that I had someone who cared about me, it's not going to bring him back and I can't just throw away his sacrifice anymore."

Loki stared at him for a few moments and Sam could almost hear the walls around him crumbling. "Your brother loved you a lot, didn't he?"

Sam nodded.

Now it looked like Loki was debating how much to tell Sam. "I have a brother, too. A younger brother. I think I know what your brother—Dean, right?—was going through, because I'd do anything for him. The thing is, he's too hopped-up on Zydrate to realize it.

"I didn't _want_ to be a drug dealer, you know. I had to because it was the only way I could support us. He's got his own payment to deal with, his heart. But I would make that same sacrifice your brother did for you, but I can't. I've never been cut, so…" He shrugged.

"You've never had a surgery?"

Loki shook his head.

"Then… have you ever had Zydrate?"

He shook his head again. "My second rule: Don't use your own drugs. Besides, I've seen too many people fall apart from it. I could never do that to myself."

"What's your first rule?"

Loki started smirking again. "Don't use real names."

Sam sighed and finally sat down on the ground, his back against the wall. He wrapped his arms back around his legs and pressed his forehead to his knees.

"You're serious about quitting Z?" he heard Loki ask.

He looked up. "Yeah. I need to quit."

Loki was silent for a moment, seeming to argue with himself. "Okay. I may regret this later, but… Look, you can't stay here. Too easy to relapse if you're still living on the street."

"I'm homeless, remember? I don't have anywhere to go."

"I know. So… I'm offering you a place to stay. With me and my brother."

Sam couldn't believe his ears. "Really?"

"Yeah. Just… don't make me regret it, okay?"

Sam nodded. "One thing, though. What's your name? Your _real_ name. You already know mine, after all."

Loki hopped off the garbage can. "Gabriel, okay? They call me Gabriel."

Sam followed Gabriel back to the old alley, where his apartment apparently was. When Gabriel dashed up to the fire escape, he realized that this must have been how he was able to disappear so quickly that first night he saw him. The smaller man pulled himself easily up the ladder and as Sam watched, his shirt raised several inches, exposing the golden skin of his stomach, and a blast of heat rolled through him, centering in his groin, and he bit his lip to hold back his soft groan. If Gabriel noticed, though, he didn't say anything. He peered down from the balcony a story above Sam and said, "Well?"

Sam shook it off—not entirely, but enough to focus on the task at hand—and jumped for the ladder, pulling himself up the first few rungs and climbing once his feet could reach. He quickly drew level with Gabriel who then charged up the metal steps, and he chased after him, up past the third floor and off at the fourth.

Gabriel leaned down to dislodge a piece of pipe from the door, clearly holding it open, and Sam unconsciously licked his lips, unable to keep himself from staring at his denim-clad ass. He led them down the hallway, swinging the pipe as he went, and Sam realized what was so dangerous about him. Every move he made was fluid and sensual, and he had an incredible amount of control over him already. He wanted to shove him against the wall and feel him rut against him, a desire that only intensified when Gabriel turned left at the T in the hallway and turned his head, shooting him a dirty little smirk.

It pretty much confirmed in his mind that he was well aware of what he was doing to Sam, and he had no intention of stopping. The moment he stopped walking, fishing his key out of his pocket and unlocking the door, Sam stepped close behind him and rested his hand on Gabriel's hip. He froze for a fraction of a second but otherwise, didn't react. He simply pushed the door open and stepped inside, pocketing his key. Sam was right behind him and as soon as the door closed behind him, he pulled the smaller man against him and crushed Gabriel's mouth to his.

His eyes closed immediately and his free hand, the one that wasn't holding the pipe, reached up and cradled the back of Sam's head. He spread his lips and welcomed Sam's tongue, dropping the pipe and gripping the counter behind him for support, but it was clear to both of them who was really in charge. Gabriel pushed back against Sam, nudging Sam's groin with his hip, and smirked through the kiss at Sam's strangled moan.

"Is your brother home?" Sam asked softly, pulling back for a moment.

Gabriel shook his head. "He doesn't get home until the morning."

"Good." Sam kissed Gabriel again, cupping the smaller man's face and groaning, marveling at the silky soft hair against his fingers. _Jesus_ , everything about this man seemed designed for sex. He allowed himself to be pushed backward until Gabriel spun them around and he pulled them along, still joined at the lips, toward another closed door. Gabriel seized the hem of Sam's T-shirt and swept it over his head, and then he ran his fingers over his chest. Sam shivered, pinning Gabriel to the wall with his body, and gave a quick, sharp tug on his hair. Gabriel's head tipped back as he keened and Sam's tongue swept back into his mouth. He was losing what little control he still had, and he was only missing his shirt. He wanted to feel all of this man's bare skin against his, wanted to feel the friction of their bodies sliding together, wanted that slick heat—

Gabriel had opened his jeans in his moment of distraction, but he was brought sharply back to reality when he felt his palm against his stiff cock. "Oh, Jesus," Sam breathed, unable to stop himself from grinding into Gabriel's hand. With a groan, he threw out one hand against the wall above Gabriel's head and wrapping the other around his shoulders, bracing himself. How the _fuck_ could a mere touch from this man already have him coming undone? He struggled to check his reaction, trying to focus on something besides his touch, his scent, his taste still on his tongue.

And then Gabriel was shoving his jeans down and Sam couldn't do anything but step out of them, toeing off his shoes as he did so, and he pressed his body, now completely stripped, against Gabriel's fully clothed one.

"Fuck," he muttered. He finally managed to tear off Gabriel's shirt and Gabriel reached behind them and opened the door. Sam's hands fumbled with the fly of Gabriel's jeans as the smaller man walked them into his bedroom and slammed the door closed with a well-aimed kick.

And then Gabriel was fully in control again, turning them and pushing Sam back onto his bed, crawling over him, laying a deep, bruising kiss against his lips. This was different, more intense than their other kisses. It was still fierce and desperate, hard and aching, but there was more than just a purely sexual frustration behind it. There was an undeniable emotional craving underneath.

Gabriel positioned himself between Sam's legs and scraped his teeth down his neck. The younger man gasped and fisted one hand through Gabriel's hair, twisting and exposing more of his neck. He knew that he'd have a bruise in a few hours from the way Gabriel was sucking, but he couldn't care—he enjoyed being marked too much.

Gabriel slithered out of his jeans and kicked them to the side and Sam actually whined when he felt the smooth skin of Gabriel's cock against his. "God," he gasped. "Please, Gabriel… I need you."

The smaller man pulled back for a moment and pressed two fingers to Sam's lips. With a smirk, he said, "Suck."

Sam took his fingers in his mouth and sucked hard, running his tongue over each of them in turn and licking them from base to tip, scraping his teeth over them gently. He couldn't help but put on a little bit of a show for Gabriel, whose smirk widened even as his pupils were blown black from lust. He definitely knew how to use his tongue, and he hoped he could demonstrate it better later.

Abruptly, Gabriel withdrew his fingers and Sam whimpered for a moment, but it turned into a moan, loud and shaking, as Gabriel pushed one saliva-slickened finger inside him. "Oh, God, _yes_!"

"If you like that, you haven't seen _anything_ yet," Gabriel said mischievously. He shoved in a second finger and dragged them over Sam's prostate, and the younger man nearly went blind.

"Please," he whimpered as Gabriel slowly started thrusting with his fingers. He raised his hips to meet every thrust, groaning every time his fingers skimmed back over that spot. "More, _please_... God, Gabriel, please!" He tightened his grip on Gabriel's hair and dug his nails into his hip, grinding against him.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered, the teasing tone practically dripping from his voice.

"Please, Gabriel… I want your cock in me… _please_!"

Gabriel smirked and pulled his fingers out. Sam gasped, not realizing how empty he'd felt before, but gave a loud cry when, a moment later, he finally got what he wanted and Gabriel's length, hard and hot, pressed inside him. " _Oh, God, yes!_ "

Gabriel gritted his teeth. _Oh, fuck._ He hadn't expected Sam to feel so inviting. He was in control, but it was slipping away rapidly. He was losing his mind—that had to be the explanation when he gave that first hard, deep thrust inside Sam and they both groaned dizzyingly. Sam clung to him, wrapping his legs around his waist, and then he was mindless, fucking Sam harder, rocking into him and panting, coiling his arms around him and enjoying far too much the feeling of being used.

"Harder, Gabriel," Sam pleaded. "Fuck me harder!"

"Jesus, Sammy!" Gabriel pounded into him harder, groaning, "Fuck, you feel so good… so fucking good…"

Sam cried out again, his back arching off the bed, his hips meeting every thrust of Gabriel's, and he tightened his hold on the smaller man, whimpering, "Please, just like that… Just a little more… Fuck, I'm so fucking close…" And then he was coming apart, careening over the edge and he was sobbing out Gabriel's name, holding him tight, unwilling to let him go, needing to keep him close.

Gabriel came with one more roll of his hips, still buried deep in Sam, his own pleasured cry mixing in the air with Sam's. And then the silence stretched between them, broken only by their uneven breathing as their caught their breath. Gabriel laughed softly and even though he didn't know what was funny, Gabriel's laughter was contagious and Sam laughed, too.

"I wasn't expecting that," Gabriel said after a few moments.

"Yeah, me neither. Surprise?"

Gabriel grinned and pulled out of Sam, eliciting a broken groan from the younger man and a faint hiss from the older one. He slid off Sam and rolled next to him, preparing to settle in for a nap, when the front door to the apartment opened with a bang.

Gabriel and Sam both sat straight up. "Who the fuck is that?" Sam whispered, his voice frantic.

"I think it's my brother, but if it is, something is definitely wrong." Gabriel reached for his jeans and pulled them back on before dashing for the front door. "Cas?" he called.

"Yeah," he heard his brother's voice answer.

He turned the corner and saw Castiel. One look at his face said that he was right.

Something had gone horribly wrong.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean swept into Largo Tower, swiped his employee ID card through the scanner, and held his badge up next to his face for the GeneCop on duty to buzz him through the atrium door and to the elevators. "Thank you, Mr. Winchester," the GeneCop said. Once the buzzer sounded, he pushed open the slick glass door and crossed the antechamber to elevators. He swiped his card through the reader next to the elevators and hit the up arrow once the scanner beeped.

From somewhere behind him, he heard the GeneCop say, "Thank you, Dr. Wallace."

Dean glanced over his shoulder and saw Nathan Wallace striding in his direction, a bag held tight in his hand. He could only be going to the same place he was heading—Rotti Largo's office for that night's repossession assignments. The elevator _ding_ ed and the doors slid open, and Dean stepped inside. He wordlessly threw his hand out to hold the elevator for Wallace. A moment later, he was inside the elevator, too, and he gave a silent nod of thanks to Dean. The younger man hit the button right on top, the PH glowing now, and the doors smoothly closed in front of them.

He didn't know Wallace very well, only about as well as two men in the exact same line of work could. Both of them were repo men, and both were very skilled at their jobs. Only a handful of repo men made it into public consciousness and were given nicknames by the junkies they hunted, and two of them were standing right there in an elevator designed to look like someone's foyer, complete with the huge window behind them and floral-print wallpaper around them. Wallace was known as "The Doctor," mostly because he _was_ a doctor and he dressed like it when he went on his hunts, with a stethoscope slung around his neck and that funny little mirror strapped around his forehead. They called Dean "Omega," because if you saw him, you were at the end of your life.

Still, he knew that Wallace had a split personality—although the same could probably be said of him, too. They both came across as very calm, very cool, very quiet in their everyday lives. Wallace even had a seventeen-year-old daughter who had no idea her father was a repo man. But he'd seen Wallace in action once or twice, and the man was terrifying. Underneath the almost sweet, kindly-looking doctor was a sadistic killer who loved, _reveled_ in slaughtering people, and Dean knew the same could probably be said for him.

He did some quick mental math. Wallace was forty-five and had been a repo man for seventeen years—from what he understood, he'd killed his wife right after their daughter was born, and Largo covered for him in exchange for his service. That meant he'd been twenty-eight when he started his career as a professional killer.

Dean had started at twenty. Would he be this unrecognizable when he was forty-five, or would he be worse? Did Wallace ever just want to take his daughter and run, to start a new life and pretend he was the man she thought he was? Which Wallace was the real one—the father or the killer? How could he keep them separate in his head? How did he keep from going insane?

And then he wondered— _What would Sammy think?_ He wished he could find his brother and disappear with him, but he had no idea how Sam would react when he told him what he'd been doing for the last four years. And there was no way he couldn't tell him. What if the loving brother he used to be was gone? What if he'd lost his humanity for good? What if the part of him that made him a Winchester, made him Sam's brother, made him give everything for that once-little boy was gone forever?

He swallowed hard, but the frozen look in his eyes never melted. Among the dozens of things he'd learned in his four years as a repo man was how to perfectly conceal his emotions, even when he was alone—or nearly alone, as the case was. You never know when you were being watched.

The elevator doors parted and Dean waited for Wallace to exit the elevator before he followed, the two of them heading down the hall to where Rotti Largo's secretary, a young woman named Jo, was sitting behind her desk. She looked up at their approach and hit the buzzer into Largo's office. "Mr. Largo, Dr. Wallace and Mr. Winchester are here."

A moment later, Largo's cold voice issued from the speaker. "Send in Winchester."

Jo looked at them, her expression saying quite plainly, _You heard the man._ Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Wallace take a seat across from Jo's desk, and he went to the door and went inside, closing the door behind him with a definite click.

His office was long and dark, with his desk set against the far wall and the first twenty feet or so completely empty. Arranged in front of his desk were a sofa flanked on either side by an armchair. Dean would have cursed or at least grimaced if he wasn't as well-trained as he was. He always hated conducting business whenever other people were present, but especially when any of Largo's bratty children were there. Today, though, they were all here—Luigi on his right, Amber sprawled out on the sofa in the middle, and Pavi on the left, giddily eyeing his new face in his mirror. But all four Largos immediately fixed their gazes on him the moment he opened the door. Pretending he didn't know what two of those glances actually meant, he crossed the office and stopped behind Amber's sofa; both she and her older brother Luigi were eyeing him predatorily.

Rotti motioned him closer with a single wave of his hand and he reluctantly passed between her sofa and Luigi's armchair to stand in front of them. He didn't want to give them an unobstructed view of his ass, but Rotti seemed oblivious both to his older son's latent homosexuality and his daughter's open admiration of Dean Winchester. Dean wasn't, though—he knew the moment he saw Luigi, and it was confirmed a week later, when the older man made a pass at him, which Dean had no qualms about turning down. Not because he didn't like men, because he did, but because Luigi was not his type, and he wasn't afraid of him, either. Luigi wouldn't retaliate because he was too worried about what his father would do if he found out.

And Amber would most likely fuck anything with a pulse, so her interest wasn't a surprise to him, either.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Winchester," Rotti said pleasantly.

"Mr. Largo."

"Your next assignment." Largo handed over a file with a name— _Novak, Castiel James_ —typed on the side. _What the Hell kind of name is Castiel?_ he wondered, flipping open the file.

The first thing he registered was the picture next to the name typed again. This kid looked sixteen—although another glance at his birthday told him that Novak was actually twenty-two. The picture, judging by how pale and sickly he looked, must have been taken before or just after his surgery. His hair was dark and messy, matted down, and his eyes were blue and unusually bright, but empty-looking. He would have been very attractive if he didn't look so damn _breakable_.

He scanned through the file further. Heart replacement. One brother, older, Gabriel Richard Novak, who was not on file—so his brother hadn't gone under the knife. Current address was 814 Lawrence Avenue—his stomach jolted. He looked up. "This is—"

"Around where you used to live, yes. That's why I picked you." Rotti smiled—actually, it looked more like a baring of teeth, and Dean saw that he'd clearly passed his animalistic side on to at least two of his children. "You know the area well. It'll be easier for you than for anyone else."

His throat tightened but he nodded. _What if Sammy is there?_ Part of him wanted to see his brother again, even though he knew he would probably be executed for it, but part of him worried that, if Sam saw him and recognized, he'd be horrified at what he'd become.

"Happy hunting, Mr. Winchester," Largo said in a tone that indicated the meeting was over. "Send Dr. Wallace in."

"Yes, sir." He quickly turned and ignored again the four sets of eyes on his back, instead studying Novak's picture as he went. It was a shame about this boy's heart and that, in twelve hours, it would be in an iced bag on Largo's desk.

Castiel James Novak would make an exceptionally pretty corpse to scrub off the sidewalk.

He waved Wallace into Largo's office and the older man stood up, that bag in his hands— _he's been working overtime_ , Dean realized; there could only be some poor sap's organ in there—as Dean went back the way he came. He took the elevator down to the basement, where every repo man had a locker for his equipment. He went to locker 76 and spun in the combination—05-02-36, Sam's birthday—and the lock fell open in his hand. He stashed the file inside and quickly changed out of his black jeans, black dress shirt, and black street shoes, and into his repo gear. There were the thick-soled steel-toed combat boots that hugged his feet like sneakers, the leather pants woven with Kevlar that could withstand scrapes, scratches, cuts, and bullet grazes, the leather jacket also woven with Kevlar and coated with a plastic-like film that made it easy to clean the blood off, and his mask with a clear visor over his eyes, making them the only visible part of his face. He slid his blades into the various pockets and holsters in his jacket and on his pants, zipped his jacket up, and slammed his locker closed. He locked it, picked up an empty repo bag, and exited the locker room as Azazel (popularly known as "The Demon," and only partly because of his eerily yellow eyes) brushed past him.

The GeneCop behind the desk didn't greet him as he left. He was in repo mode now. As far as all other employees of GeneCo was concerned, he was invisible, a ghost.

A murderous shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luigi Largo totally likes the cock.


	9. Chapter 9

"Jesus, Cas, what happened?" A thousand different scenarios flashed through Gabriel's mind—someone had hurt him, Anna was dead, there had been a raid by the GeneCops—but nothing prepared him for Castiel's response.

"I defaulted," he whispered.

"You… what? _How?_ "

Castiel glanced at Sam, who'd followed Gabriel out of his bedroom. Gabriel caught his look and hurriedly explained, "That's Sam. He was homeless so I'm letting him live here so he can kick his Zydrate habit." He knew this didn't account for why both of them looked flushed and sweaty and why Sam's hazel eyes looked a little glassy, but that really wasn't important right now.

"I didn't realize what the date was. I made my last payment at the end of May. I didn't… yeah, I had no idea how long it'd been. I just kept saying to myself, 'I just made a payment, so I'm good for awhile.' And the days just run together, you know? I lost track."

Gabriel could barely breathe. His whole world was crashing down around him. This was it. His little brother was going to die. His private nightmare for the last seven years was finally coming to life. "You…" His voice was just above a whisper. He let out a shaky breath and started again. "You still have a few days left, right? It usually takes them a week or so to process defaulted claims. Jo said so."

Sam knew that, too, from firsthand experience. He remembered the day, about a week before Dean died, when he looked at the calendar and his face tightened. There had been a steely sort of resignation behind his eyes that Sam hadn't understood at the time—but he understood it that terrible morning when he woke up to Dean's goodbye letter on the kitchen table. Every day since then had been the worst day of his life. Today had been shaping up to be a decided improvement, but now that Gabriel's younger brother was about to suffer the same fate as his older brother, that was shot to Hell.

Castiel's blue eyes were filling with tears although his face maintained the same quiet sort of desperation he'd had the moment he walked in. Slowly, he shook his head. "I don't have days."

He didn't want to hear the answer, but Gabriel asked anyway. "How long do you have?"

"Hours. I defaulted eight days ago. They're probably coming for me tonight."

"No." Gabriel shook his head. "No, we'll think of something. I have cash—enough to cover a few payments. We'll pay the repo man the moment he arrives. You'll be fine." There was a desperate, almost hysterical edge to his voice and his golden eyes as he tried to assure all three of them even though they all knew it was futile. Repo men had no mercy. They didn't care if you had the cash to pay off the rest of your balance—if you defaulted, that was it. You were dead. Nothing could stop them except one word from Rotti Largo.

Castiel sat down on the couch, folding his hands in his lap and staring at his shoes. He was going to die tonight. He'd already accepted it. Gabriel couldn't though—and that knowledge was what caused a bubble of panic to rise inside him. He swallowed, breathing hard, trying to calm himself as Gabriel began pacing, muttering to himself. Sam just stood there, very carefully not looking at either of the Novak brothers.

"Gabe, please," Castiel murmured. "It's over. I've accepted it. You need to as well."

Gabriel stared at him for a moment and shook his head. "I can't." He disappeared inside his room for a few moments. When he came back, his shirt and shoes had been tugged on and he swung his jacket onto his shoulders. "I'll be back in about an hour." He turned those golden eyes on Sam. "Don't let him do anything stupid while I'm gone."

Sam would do anything Gabriel asked. They both knew it, sensed it in the way Sam just nodded in response. With a nod of satisfaction, Gabriel swept out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

"I don't know what he's planning," Castiel said, "but it's useless. Repo men won't show me any mercy."

"I know," Sam said softly. "I know all about the repo men. My brother…" His voice faltered as Castiel finally looked at him, a sharp curiosity in his eyes. Sam could almost see the wheels turning in his head. "My brother was repossessed four years ago."

He asked the question Sam knew he would. "Older or younger?"

"Older."

"Gabriel knows this?" Castiel half-asked.

"Yes."

He might as well have said what he was thinking—Sam knew what was going on in his mind. _"Gabriel brought him to live with us because he lost someone. He's the version of me that he can actually save. He can protect this boy, save him from Zydrate, save him from repo men, like he couldn't save me from anything—not even myself. I was already being replaced and no one even realized it."_

"I'm not here to replace you," Sam murmured.

"But that's what you're going to be to him. A replacement for me—and apparently, one he can sleep with. It doesn't matter, though. It's not like I'll be able to say anything to stop it."

"We didn't plan—"

"I know you didn't plan for this to happen. It was supposed to be the three of us here together. Gabriel has this inherent need to rescue people he cares about. He tried to rescue our parents and he failed. He tried to rescue me and he failed. He's trying to rescue you now." Those deep blue eyes of Castiel's seemed to pierce right into his soul. "Please don't let him fail this time. Until you came along, I was the last person he had in his life. It's why he tried so desperately to keep me safe. Hindsight is a bitch, though. I didn't think he… he actually really cared. But his face when I told him… He's heartbroken, Sam. He doesn't have a family anymore. And I'm assuming that, since you were homeless, you don't have a family anymore, either. So let him help you, because you'll be helping him. He obviously cares about you, or else he wouldn't have let you in. He needs you as much as you need him."

"I barely know him," Sam said softly, finally sitting down next to Castiel.

"Gabriel Richard Novak. He's twenty-five. His birthday is June 6. His favorite color is orange. He cries every time he hears the Kansas song 'Carry On Wayward Son.' He hates being a drug dealer. He loves his family and he has a thing for candy and Mexican food. For the last five years, he's been taking care of me, doing anything and everything he can to make ends meet. I'm a disappointment to him, but only because he correctly assumed I was throwing away my life. He will defend you to his last breath if he loves you. Squirrels freak him out. Cheesy knock-knock jokes make him laugh." Castiel gave him a look that said, _'There, are you happy?'_

The corner of Sam's mouth had tugged up into a smile upon hearing about the squirrels. "Well, if I'll be here for awhile, I'll probably discover the rest on my own, won't I?"

Castiel nodded. "Your brother. Tell me about him. What happened when he was repossessed?"

Sam swallowed, the smile melting off his face. "Dean. He would have been twenty-four if he were still alive now. He was twenty when he died. His kidneys… I had a lung surgery and he was paying off my debt and leaving his own as an afterthought. One morning, I woke up and he wasn't in his bed. I went to the kitchen and there was a note from him on the table. It explained everything. He apologized, said he'd left the apartment the night before because he knew the repo man was coming for him and he didn't want to put me in danger. He told me he knew I could handle it, though, because I was sixteen and he inherited the responsibility of our debts at sixteen. That was when our dad died—Dean was sixteen and I was twelve. I don't know what Dean did or said to that repo man who killed him, but a week later, I got a letter from GeneCo saying that my debt was cleared. He made some sort of deal because my lungs were nowhere near getting paid off. Somehow, though, he saved me. I never got to say goodbye to him and I didn't get to bury him. I miss him every damn day."

"He really did care about you."

"Yes, he did."

"And now Gabriel cares about you."

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered, but Castiel shook his head.

"No. It's a good thing. It's something you needed to realize. I didn't realize it and now I'm paying the price. You two can save each other.

"Like I already told him, I'm going to die tonight and I've accepted it. Yes, it sucks, but there's no way to stop it. It's pointless to resist. And from what you've told me of your brother, that was his mentality when he went to his death. So promise me that, when I'm gone, you'll let Gabriel save you. It's what your brother would have wanted, it's what Gabriel wants, it's what I want, and it's what you need."

Sam swallowed and nodded. "I promise."

"Good." The blue-eyed man slumped back against the sofa cushions finally and closed his eyes. When Gabriel returned a half an hour later, he looked hopeless. Sadly, he sat down on the other side of Castiel and, all at once, he and Sam leaned into him, leaving Castiel squished in the middle. The three of them fell asleep like that.


	10. Chapter 10

Castiel woke up around nine when Gabriel accidentally jostled him as he stood up to go to the bathroom. His eyes opened and he watched as his brother silently exited the room, trying to avoid waking Castiel and Sam.

Castiel glanced to his side to confirm what he suspected: Sam was dead to the world.

He waited until the door closed with a soft, definite click before sliding out from underneath Sam's arm. He knew he couldn't be here when the repo man came for him. He couldn't endanger his brother and Sam like that. This would be the only chance he had to keep them from getting involved.

As quietly as possible, he crept to the door, opened it, and ducked outside. He closed it quickly and dashed down the hallway to the stairs. He took the stairs down to the main floor two at a time and didn't stop running until he was halfway down the street. His lungs burned in his chest when he finally slowed to a walk and slunk down the next few blocks. Finally, he collapsed into an empty alley and waited.

 _Forgive me, Gabriel. It's easier this way. I know there's no hope for me, but you can't accept it. I hope you'll be able to forgive me eventually._ He tilted his face up to the night sky, pulled his knees up to his chest, and closed his eyes.

* * *

Gabriel stretched and yawned softly before padding back toward the sofa. He froze in the doorway between the hallway and the living room and stared.

Sam was slumped over on the sofa, snoring softly. He'd completely flopped to his left, his face pressed to the cushion where Castiel had just been sitting. Gabriel felt his heart stutter as he tried to assure himself that his brother had gone to his bedroom or to the kitchen or something. "Cas?" he rasped.

When he didn't get an answer, he shook Sam awake. The taller man jumped a bit and looked around wildly. "Wha's goin' on?" he asked sleepily.

"Where's Cas?" Gabriel asked, feeling panic bordering on hysteria bubbling up in his chest.

"I…" Sam looked around again. "I don't know."

"Cas?" Gabriel called loudly, standing up and starting to circle the room. "Castiel?" _This can't be happening. This_ can't _be happening!_ "Cas?"

He practically flew to Castiel's bedroom and threw the door open. The room was empty. "No-no-no-no-no," he whispered. "Cas!"

He probably would have shouted loudly enough to wake the whole building, but Sam appeared and pulled Gabriel to his chest. The shorter man let himself be held and for a moment, he just breathed. Then he was sobbing, clinging to Sam with his shoulders shaking.

Castiel had gone to face his execution alone.

* * *

Castiel opened his eyes and turned his face to the mouth of the alley. He heard the footsteps from a good block away, and within moments, a figure appeared. For the first time, a chill ran through him and he felt genuinely afraid. In a few minutes, he would be dead, bleeding, and his heart would be in that bag in the repo man's hand.

"Castiel Novak."

Another tremor of fear wracked his body and he climbed to his feet, turning to face his killer. "Yes," he said, his voice stronger than he expected.

The repo man started toward him. Before he'd taken a single step, Castiel had whipped around and started running in the opposite direction, his trench coat billowing out behind him.

The serenity with which he'd approached his death mere hours ago was now gone. All he felt was terror and only one thought went through his head. _I don't want to die!_

The sound of the repo man's footfalls pounded in his ears. It sounded like he was gaining on him. Fortunately, he had the element of surprise. He ducked quickly to the right, following a fork in the alley. Up ahead was another turn and he took a deep breath, but his lungs were burning again. Adrenaline could only take him so far, and he was slowing now. And this repo man, he must have been conditioned to run. Still, he pushed himself, turning left now, and he took a quick glance behind him.

The fifty feet between him and the repo man was now barely thirty. In the thirty or so seconds since he'd started running, the repo man had nearly caught up with him. _Fuck!_

And then, when he turned to watch where he was going, he knew he was dead. He slowed to a walk, staring at the solid wall in front of him. He turned and saw, heart hammering and hands shaking, that the repo man had also slowed to a leisurely stroll. A shiny blade appeared in his right hand as he approached and Castiel continued backing up until his back hit the wall. The light over his head flickered and he knew that all he could do was pray for a quick end.

The repo man was close now. He'd heard whispers, rumors of some repo men and realized this was the one they called Omega. His mask was lighted on the inside and he was close enough that Castiel could see that his eyes were green. _What a crazy thought. I'm about to die and all I can see is his green eyes._ He inhaled sharply, knowing it would be one of the last times he did so.

Omega's eyes locked with Castiel's, and suddenly the world shifted.

* * *

Four years. That's how long it had been since Dean had felt anything besides numb loneliness or vague fear. He couldn't explain why he felt anything other than utter apathy for what he was about to do to this boy. After all, he'd killed a lot of people younger than Castiel Novak and hadn't felt a damn thing. But one good look into his eyes—Jesus, they couldn't be any bluer, could they?—had him questioning everything.

And what a difference the intervening seven years made. His eyes were still bright and blue, his hair still dark and messy, but his face was fuller and right now, his cheeks were flushed. He looked less sickly and more… Well, his assumption from earlier in the night was correct. When he appeared less breakable, he was extremely attractive.

Dean had no idea why he suddenly felt the desire to not kill this boy. It wasn't as if he hadn't executed attractive men and women before. Maybe it was those wide blue eyes he had, fixed on him with a mixture of fear and apprehension. Maybe it was because he could have had contact with Sam. Maybe it was just because Dean was back in his old neighborhood, a place he hadn't seen since the night he supposedly died, and he just couldn't take a resident of this place.

 _I can't._ Almost of its own accord, he dropped the bag in his left hand. He raised his hand to the bottom of his mask and swiftly pulled it off. Without the light from the mask in his eyes, he could see better. The mask was really just to keep their identities a secret, but right now, Dean couldn't bring him to care.

If possible, Castiel looked even better without the layer of pale blue light and tempered plastic in the way. His eyes went wider and raked over his face, his lips parting the barest amount and his tongue sweeping across his lips.

That tiny motion broke the trance he'd set over Dean. Before he could stop himself, before he had time to process _I am so dead if I do this_ , he dropped his mask, wrapped his arm around his waist, tugged the younger man to him, and crushed Castiel's mouth with his.

* * *

 _This is_ definitely _not normal._ Castiel wasn't an idiot—he'd never heard of a repo man taking his mask off before an execution. But Omega was, reaching up and pulling his mask off. And then he couldn't stop staring.

He'd never given any thought to what his repo man would look like beneath the mask. He wasn't quite sure what he'd expected, even if he had, he certainly wouldn't have picked this man as the most likely repo man in a crowd.

He couldn't even be the same age as Gabriel. He looked far too young, only a year or two older than him at the most. His eyes were a deeper green than he'd originally thought. He had short, sandy-blond hair that practically invited him to run his fingers through it. But the thing that struck him the most was how absolutely beautiful his lips were, full and obviously made for nothing except kissing and sucking dick. The streetwalker part of him was relieved that he'd never had to compete with this man, because he wouldn't have made a dollar with Omega standing next to him.

Then the mask dropped from his hand and in one fluid motion, he was suddenly drawing him close and those amazing lips were pressed to his. His heart, still very much in his chest, pounded as he relaxed into the repo man's embrace and even dared to slide his arms around him. There was a clatter as the blade in Omega's other hand fell to the ground and then his other arm was around him too and Castiel felt Omega's lips moving against his and he deepened the kiss, spreading his lips. Their tongues met and he moaned softly, tightening his arms.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually been kissed. Alastair certainly never kissed him and he was grateful for it suddenly. No, Omega was the first person to actually kiss him in years and it was shockingly sweet. His head spun pleasantly and all he could think was, _Well, at least I get to experience some decent human contact before I die._ He felt himself taking one step backward until his body was leaning against the wall again and Omega was still pressed against him, his tongue running over his teeth, against the roof of his mouth, over his tongue, and Castiel moaned again at the slick heat.

One of Omega's hands was pushing past Castiel's trench coat, under his shirt, and up the bare skin over his ribs. Castiel shivered at the touch, his brain short-circuiting. He'd been a whore for so long that he forgot how it felt to actually be wanted—and as crazy as it seemed, he just knew that Omega actually wanted him. He could feel it in the way the repo man's lips moved against his, and he couldn't help but reach up and thread his fingers through Omega's hair.

And then a beeping sounded from the watch on Omega's wrist. A strange voice barked out, _"Apprehend the repo man Nathan Wallace at once!"_ Omega quickly pulled away, his face flushing. "Shit," he muttered.

"Nathan Wallace?" Castiel asked, eyeing Omega suspiciously.

The repo man shook his head, stooping to gather his mask, his bag, and his blade. "No, that's another repo man." Without the mask, his voice was surprisingly soft and as sweet as cherry pie. He looked at Castiel for a moment. "You're a very lucky person, Castiel Novak. I have to take care of Wallace, so…" He looked around, as if worried about being overheard. "Run. Take Gabriel and leave this city." The look in his eyes shifted from cool and detached to nearly frantic. "If you get more than a hundred miles from the city, we won't be able to find you anymore. You have to leave tonight, okay? Just go. I don't want to have to kill you."

"Wha—?" _How does he know about Gabriel? What's happening?_

"Just go!" Omega begged. "Please. Leave tonight—tomorrow, he'll just send me back to kill you."

Numbly, Castiel nodded. "Okay. Don't worry—we'll get out."

"Good." Omega smiled with relief. A moment later, he pressed another kiss to Castiel's lips for the briefest of moments. Before Castiel could really register that it'd happened, Omega was pulling his mask back on, stashing his blade again, and dashing back down the alley.

Without stopping to think about how strange the evening had been, Castiel slowly started back toward home.


	11. Chapter 11

A sick feeling settled into Dean's stomach as he headed toward the Genetic Opera House. Largo would know for sure what he'd done. That kiss— _fuck, those kisses_ —had been completely impulsive and completely foolish. He'd forgotten how it felt to have a pair of kind eyes on him, how it felt to be regarded with something besides fear, lust, or disdain. Castiel had just appeared curious, his head cocked a bit to one side like he could see right through his mask. And then the moment his mask came off, there was nothing but wonder in his beautiful blue eyes.

And why had he been rendered so entirely senseless by those eyes? His heart raced when he thought about them, no matter how hard he tried to forget. It wasn't as though he hadn't killed other people's younger brothers and sisters before. He'd once killed an entire family—with the aid of Azazel and another repo man named Roman—and that memory, from early in his repo career, still woke him at night in a cold sweat. But he'd done it, mercilessly, because that was what was expected of him. Yet one little twenty-two-year-old man with a pretty face and big blue eyes had managed to completely unsettle him.

Largo would know for sure. Their repo masks had a video feed linked right to a database (for training and quality-assurance purposes) and Largo liked to go through and watch them sometimes for sick kicks. Dean was so unbelievably screwed. He would most likely be executed, and Sammy— _Oh, God_ —they'd hunt him down and kill him, too.

He stopped outside of the gates to the opera house. The crowd was huge but parted immediately to let him through. A life wasn't worth much these days, and no one wanted to end up on the wrong end of an annoyed repo man's blade. He stared at the doors through the gate, a plan already forming in his head.

He only had one choice now. He could only run back to GeneCo and clear Sam's file off the database. Once it was permanently deleted, they wouldn't be able to find him again unless he needed another transplant. Dean wished he could find Sammy again, but he'd be dead by tomorrow. There was no way, if he tried to flee, any repo man wouldn't be able to find him. He was too recognizable, he had nowhere to go, and he'd be out in the open trying to find Sammy again anyway. Just like Nathan Wallace, Largo would send the repo men after him. So he would use his final hours to save Sammy once and for all.

And Castiel Novak. He'd clear out Castiel Novak's record, too.

And then he felt his heart swelling as he started away from the opera house and toward GeneCo. No, he wouldn't stop at clearing out Sammy's and Castiel's records. He would delete every file GeneCo had. He would make up for all the lives he'd taken by giving all these people their lives back.

He practically flew back to GeneCo.

* * *

He was relieved to see that Jo had left for the night. That made it easier for him to break into Largo's office. Breaking into his computer would be only slightly more difficult.

Slowly, he locked the door behind him and slunk across the room. He half-expected to see one of the Largo kids still here, draped over some piece of furniture or another, but he reminded himself that Amber was performing tonight (the new voice of GeneCo, now that Blind Mag was retiring) and her brothers would be required to attend out of support. He made it to Largo's desk and sat down, sliding out the drawer that contained Largo's laptop. He lifted the lid and took a deep breath.

 _This computer has been locked. Only LargoR or an administrator can unlock this computer._ Dean cleared out Largo's username and typed in "administrator." With another paranoid glance up, he typed in the administrator password and hit enter.

Largo's desktop returned immediately. Dean smiled and opened up the program containing the entire patient database. He hit control-A, right-clicked, and hit "delete selected." A message box popped up reading _Only an authorized account holder may delete files._ He knew this—he pressed OK and another box popped up, asking for a username and password. He typed in his own and hit enter. Normally he had some IT person and a GeneCop breathing down his neck to ensure he only deleted the file of the person he'd repossessed, so being completely alone was strange.

A progress bar appeared on the screen as, one by one, all three million plus files began to dissolve into nothing. He grinned and got up, heading toward the door.

Castiel numbly walked up the stairs back to his home. His mind was spinning—that Omega had just let him go. He didn't know why, but he was grateful. He'd been given a second chance, and for Gabriel and Sam's sakes, he wouldn't waste it. The three of them could flee, start over again somewhere far from here. He wouldn't have to sell himself anymore, and Gabriel wouldn't have to deal drugs, and Sam could just be everything Gabriel needed.

Maybe one day, he could find someone who needed him as much as Gabriel and Sam needed each other, but he wouldn't count on it. The crazy thing was, before tonight, he hadn't even thought about something as far-fetched as someone actually being in love with him, too concerned with just surviving. But now, all he could think was that, just maybe, there had been a spark of something akin to love behind Omega's gaze.

He unlocked the door and stepped back inside. Everything felt so surreal—he hadn't expected to ever see this place again, yet here he was. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting gratitude wash over him. _He was alive._ He smiled and opened his eyes. "Gabriel!" he called.

"Cas?" His brother's voice sounded stunned, disbelieving. And then he almost dashed out from the hallway and stopped, staring at Castiel. The look on his face was clear: _Are you really here?_

"Gabe, he let me go. He got called away. He said he'll have to come for me tomorrow night, but he said that if I get more than a hundred miles from the city, he won't be able to track me." He grabbed Gabriel's hands and shook them—his brother still looked to be in shock. "We have to go, Gabe! He let me go—we have to get out of here tonight! You, me, Sam—Anna!" he added quickly, on a sudden burst of inspiration. "We have to bring her with us!" Anna was the closest thing he had to a friend. He couldn't leave her to her fate, too. Besides, if he was going to stop selling himself and maybe, just maybe, kick his Zydrate habit, too, he wanted her to have the opportunity to do the same.

This seemed to jolt Gabriel out of his reverie. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, finally tearing his golden gaze from his brother's face. He shook his head. "No, Cas. You're not going back out there. You _can't_. _I_ can't…" His expression was pleading now. "I thought you were dead. I can't even think about losing you for real."

"Gabe. The earliest anyone will be sent back for me is tomorrow night. They were all called to apprehend another repo man. Please, Gabriel. I can't just leave Anna to rot here. Please."

Gabriel swallowed hard as Sam came up behind him and gently put a hand on his shoulder. Castiel was suddenly struck by how tall Sam was, how much taller than his short older brother. It was almost enough to make him laugh, but he managed to keep a straight face. Sam looked down at Gabriel and said softly, "He'll be fine. Besides, he's right. We need to get out of here. While he's gone, we can go down to the corner store and get some food for the trip. He'll be back before you know it." He glanced at Castiel and smiled. "We need a plan, though, so after he brings Anna back here, we need to discuss this."

Finally, Gabriel nodded. "Okay. Just… just hurry back. You have your knife, right?"

"Always."

"Good. Okay. Just hurry, okay?" If Castiel went out on his charity mission and didn't come back this time, he would go off the deep end.

Castiel hugged his brother tightly, and Gabriel clung to him like he was an anchor in a stormy sea. He closed his eyes, trying to memorize the way Castiel's heartbeat sounded and felt as if he'd never hear it, never feel it again. He was scared to death of letting his brother go again, but he knew Castiel and Sam were both right. "Come back safe," he whispered.

"I will," Castiel confirmed, finally releasing Gabriel. "I love you."

It had been four years since the last time Castiel had said "I love you" to him. It was as though, at eighteen, he had decided he didn't need to anymore. Gabriel smiled, suddenly feeling his eyes burning with tears. "I love you, too," he said.

Castiel grinned and darted back out the door.

* * *

Dean slipped in the side door of the Genetic Opera House and slunk up to a balcony to watch the events. With a numb sort of interest, he watched as Luigi slashed at the back of Nathan Wallace's legs with a hidden blade, effectively rendering him unable to walk. That girl in the black dress—that was Shilo Wallace? She was almost deathly pale, but she looked strong.

Then he happened to glance upstage and registered with a small amount of surprise that Blind Mag had been impaled on an iron fence post. That _couldn't_ be fake—it looked far too grotesque. She looked too much like a corpse, any corpse, that he'd caused. He'd seen too many dead bodies to be fooled by a fake.

Minutes passed and it slowly became clear that Rotti Largo's health was deteriorating rapidly. He was coughing more frequently, leaning too heavily on his cane. He was definitely aware of his imminent demise, too—he suddenly slapped a shiny silver handgun into Shilo's hands and ordered her to kill her father. "And I'll leave you GeneCo," he added, and from the audience, a tub of popcorn went flying into the air.

" _What?_ " Luigi suddenly screeched, jumping up and dashing back to the stage.

Dean grinned in spite of himself.

Shilo protested that she wasn't a murderer, couldn't kill her father. Rotti countered that she shared her father's genetics and his kill-happy gene could have been passed to her. Back and forth they went, Shilo suddenly realizing what she'd gotten herself into, refusing to kill her father. And then Largo lunged for the gun and the lights went out and suddenly, Shilo yelled, "No!"

There was a gunshot. When the lights came up, Nathan Wallace lay dying on the stage floor.

The Largo children started toward their father, but he waved his gun at them, demanding they keep away from him. Dean felt a sudden surge of sympathy for them. Sure, they were all flawed, but Rotti was no better than them. And then he said, "When I'm gone, I doubt the world will remember how lucky they were to have Rotti Largo." As if in slow motion, he crumpled to the floor as Luigi, Amber, and Pavi hurried toward him again. But Dean only realized one thing: Rotti Largo was dead.

The head of GeneCo was dead. The next few weeks, months even, would be chaos. He doubted any of the Largos (well, maybe not Luigi, but he was an idiot) had the fortitude to continue the repossession policy their father had instated, no matter how legal it was, and even if they did, it would be at least three weeks before anyone really took over.

And now, there wasn't a single record of any patient in GeneCo's database.

He laughed hysterically. He was free—that much was obvious. He only had one choice now.

He hurried back to GeneCo to pack up his locker and find Castiel Novak. He was going to flee with the Novaks, and he was going to find Sam, too.


	12. Chapter 12

Twenty minutes later, Dean was on his way to Castiel's apartment with his street clothes on, his duffel bag strapped to the back of his motorcycle, and a plan in his head. Now that every record had been wiped out, Castiel wasn't in any immediate danger. He would have the Novaks help him track down Sammy and then the four of them could leave this fucking city behind them. They could move somewhere where none of them had to remember the horrors of this place. Dean would never have to think about all the people he'd been forced to kill, the way he'd started to enjoy it. Sam would have his brother back. Castiel wouldn't ever have to sell himself again.

Dean knew the streetwalker type. It was pretty obvious that Castiel was one of them, but Dean didn't honestly care. Somehow, Castiel had saved him. He'd dragged him out of his personal Hell, and for that, Dean loved him already.

Fortunately, he didn't have to look too far. As if he'd called, Castiel was suddenly there. The younger man's eyes widened in shock and a hint of fear as Dean gunned the engine toward him. "Castiel!" he called.

Castiel didn't even try to run. He must have known there was no way he could outrun him on foot while Dean was on his motorcycle. He let Dean get close and then, to his surprise, the taller man dismounted and hugged him.

"He's dead," Dean said excitedly, almost crying with happiness.

"Who?" Castiel asked slowly, suspiciously. "Nathan Wallace?"

"Well, yeah, him, too. But I meant Rotti Largo. He's dead!"

Suddenly, Castiel got excited, too. "Really? That's wonderful! But what does that mean for you? And for me?"

"Well…" Dean smiled. "I was convinced he was going to have me killed, so as my last 'fuck you' to GeneCo, I wiped out their records. Every patient who ever had an account with them is essentially free of their debt. Even you. And I have retired from my previous employment."

"That's… that's amazing!"

Dean nodded. "So what I would like to do is get out of this city with you and your brother. And since your record is also cleared and you're in no immediate danger, you don't have to leave tonight. That's good, because I need your help."

"With what?"

"Finding my brother. It's a long story, but I need to find him."

Castiel raked his eyes over Dean's face for a moment and then nodded, smiling. "Of course, I'll help you."

The relief that flooded through Dean was so overwhelming that he pulled Castiel into his arms again and, without a moment of hesitation, kissed him hard. Castiel let out a small gasp of surprise and then settled into the kiss, closing his eyes and sliding his arms around Dean. The taller man threaded his fingers through Castiel's hair before holding him by the back of his head and tracing his tongue over Castiel's lips.

"Wait," Castiel murmured suddenly, pulling away by an inch or so. He met Dean's green-eyed gaze and said, "I don't even know your name. You know mine, but I only know you as Omega."

"Oh." Dean grinned. "Sorry, you're right. I'm Dean. Dean Winchester."

 _Dean? That was the name of Sam's brother._ Castiel wished this could possibly be Sam's brother, but that Dean was dead. If he wasn't, he surely would have at least tried to contact Sam, especially if he loved him as much as they thought he had. "Hello, Dean," he said softly, resting his hand on the taller man's left shoulder. No matter what, the name seemed to fit him. "You can call me Cas. That's what everyone calls me."

"Okay, Cas," Dean said, still smiling.

Castiel smiled back. "Come on, Dean. It's too late to begin searching for your brother tonight. We'll start tomorrow. I'll tell you how to get home from here."

 _Home._ No place had ever really been home to him, not since he'd left Sammy. But for the first time, he thought maybe, just maybe, wherever Castiel was and once they found Sam, he'd always have a home.

* * *

"My brother just acquired a—well, I don't really know what they'd call it, but they care about each other and I'm fairly certain there's a sexual aspect to their relationship," Castiel said in an undertone fifteen minutes later as he unlocked the front door to his apartment. "Anyway, Gabriel is—was—a drug dealer."

Dean didn't like the sound of that.

"Not by choice, though. By necessity," Castiel explained, as if sensing Dean's apprehension. "He's a good man. He took this boy in to help him kick his Zydrate habit. He also lost someone close to him, so since then, he's fallen by the wayside."

Dean's opinion of Castiel's brother improved at his words. "He sounds like a good person," he said, setting his duffel on the floor by the door. He wrapped his arms around the smaller man from behind and started kissing the side of his neck.

Castiel nodded, settling back into Dean's embrace and closing his eyes. "He is. He's not the typical drug dealer. He cares about me a great deal. He—" He shivered, tipping his head back onto Dean's shoulder as the older man bit down gently. He knew the former repo man was seducing him, but he didn't care. It had been so long since anyone took their time with him (actually, now that he thought about it, no one had ever taken their time with him before), and he was enjoying the attention. He couldn't hold back a brief whimper as Dean nipped at his earlobe. "Anyway," he murmured, trying to keep his thoughts collected, "his lover is coming with us, too. I think you'll like him. But they're out right now, getting ready to go, so—"

"So it's just you and me?" Dean breathed into Castiel's ear, sliding one hand down his chest, past the waistband of his jeans, to palm the growing bulge there.

"Y-yes," Castiel nearly whined, grinding back against Dean. Fuck, just thinking about having sex with Dean had him aching. He had never wanted anyone this badly before. His head was spinning.

"That's fortunate. Want to give me the grand tour?" Dean traced his lips along the back of his neck and to the other side, where he scraped his teeth over the skin.

Castiel's brain was short-circuiting, but he somehow managed to say, "Do you want to see my bedroom?"

Dean ran his tongue over the shell of Castiel's ear. God, that mouth of his was magic. "I would _love_ to see your bedroom."

Castiel lost track of where his trench coat landed as he pulled Dean to his room. He dragged Dean in by the lapels of his leather jacket and pushed the door closed with his foot. Dean's arms were wrapped tightly around him as their lips crashed together and never before had a mere kiss affected him like this. He managed to divest Dean of his jacket before sliding his fingers beneath his clean white T-shirt and over the tight muscles of his stomach. Dean quickly swept his shirt over his head before stripping Castiel's shirt off as well.

The younger man was suddenly self-conscious of the scarring on his chest. While it was true that nearly everyone had had a surgery, it still didn't make him any less aware that the scar from the operation hadn't healed well. He wished he could look better for Dean, hoped that he wasn't completely repelled.

But Dean slowly trailed his fingers up Castiel's sides and across the jagged line of his surgery scar. An expression that Castiel couldn't quite read clouded over Dean's face as the older man's eyes traced the scar. "And to think, I almost killed you." He looked back up at Castiel, his eyes filled with disbelief and something that looked like— _it can't be love_ —tenderness.

"But you didn't," Castiel said. He rested his hand against Dean's shoulder as if he could leave an imprint of his hand on his skin.

 _Thank God._ "Thank you," he murmured, pulling Castiel close. He wrapped his arms tightly around him and Castiel's eyes closed as he returned the embrace. Even this chaste contact was more intimate than anything he'd felt in years. Skin to skin, holding someone tight—something in him sparked and he felt tears pricking at his eyes again.

"For what?" he finally asked.

Dean gently nudged him backward until they both fell onto the mattress and Dean moved over Castiel, alternating between pressing kisses to his lips and his chest. "For saving me," Dean said. He scraped his teeth over Castiel's shoulder. "I forgot what it was like to feel. I don't know how, but you reminded me. You saved me." He kissed the scar on Castiel's chest as he placed Castiel's hands on his lower back.

Castiel felt the scars on either side of his spine immediately. "You…?"

"I wasn't always a repo man. I was just like you once."

The younger man blushed. "A patient, or…?" _Or a whore?_

Dean brushed those full lips of his over Castiel's. "Both," he murmured. Somehow, he'd heard Castiel's unfinished question.

"Then you know I've had a lot of sex," Castiel said softly, feeling an unnecessary amount of shame wash over him.

"I'll just have to try harder to make it memorable," Dean teased, running his fingers down Castiel's chest and to the fly of his jeans. "I like a challenge." He unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, taking care to let his fingers graze over the younger man's already-significant hardness.

Castiel bit his lip, eyes sliding shut, as he tried to hold back a low moan. He didn't quite succeed and Dean grinned, pressing his lips again to Castiel's. The smaller man parted his lips beneath Dean's as Dean slid his tongue into his mouth, searching out every surface. Castiel whimpered at the invasion, a low moaning rising in his throat and against Dean's mouth. He twisted his hips to help Dean pull off his jeans and his boxers, inadvertently grinding against Dean's still denim-clad cock. Castiel whined, starting to unzip Dean's jeans—Jesus, he needed friction so badly it almost hurt—but Dean grabbed his hands and raised them above Castiel's head.

"Easy," he breathed, running his thumbs over Castiel's wrists. "I want this to last. I'm not gonna hurt you," he added as Castiel tensed beneath him in a way that, he knew, had nothing to do with anticipation. He dipped his head for another gentle kiss and slowly, the younger man relaxed again. Dean smiled against his lips and released Castiel's hands. A moment later, that mouth of his was trailing kisses down his chest before locking down on one tender nipple. Castiel whimpered and fisted Dean's hair.

Dean's hands slowly traced abstract patterns down Castiel's sides, enjoying the sound of his irregular breathing. He bit down on the soft skin and Castiel moaned loudly, squeezing Dean's sides with his knees. All he wanted was for Dean to move faster—not that he wasn't enjoying this, because he definitely was, but because he really just wanted to be fucked right now, and quick. He had no idea when Gabe and Sam would be home. They could be back any minute.

But Dean wasn't about to be rushed by trivial details like that. He moved further down Castiel's chest, biting and sucking and in general making it very difficult for Castiel to do anything except moan. Dean, for his part, was definitely enjoying what he was doing. He was probably aware that it was one of the first times that Castiel wasn't being used. He had to make it special.

"Please, Dean," Castiel pleaded. He gave a gentle tug on Dean's hair to punctuate his frustration. Dean looked up at him and grinned. A moment later, their mouths were pressed together again and Dean was sliding out of his jeans. Castiel let out a small whimper as Dean's tongue met his again and he released Dean's hair to drag his nails over his back. And then there was space between their mouths again and Dean was whispering roughly, "We need lube."

This brought Castiel sharply back to reality. He nodded and twisted, reaching over the side of his mattress. After a moment of frantic searching, he located the bottle of lubricant that he always had hidden somewhere in his room and shoved it into Dean's hand. The older man grinned again and kissed him, nudging him until he was flat on his back again. Castiel's eyes closed at the attention and he wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders, losing himself in the kiss, in that delightful feeling of Dean's full, lush lips pressed to his. He licked across Dean's lips and started nibbling on the bottom one, eliciting a soft moan from the taller man. And then he felt one of Dean's lubricant-coated fingers at his entrance and he let go, hissing in pleasure. "Oh, _Dean_ ," he moaned, digging his nails into Dean's shoulders.

When he begged, it was only because that's what he was being paid to do. He never really cared about getting off before. But this was different. By the time Dean had pushed three fingers into him, he was already so close to coming that he didn't know how he would last. He just seemed to know exactly how to touch him, where to lick, when to bite. Castiel was whimpering, rocking his hips against Dean's hand, desperate to come, and Dean had once more pinned Castiel's hands above his head. "Please, Dean," he begged. "I need it! I need you inside me, _please_ …"

Dean scraped his teeth over the curve of Castiel's neck. "Alright, Cas. But only since you asked so nicely." With a mischievous grin, he slipped his fingers out of Castiel's hole and reached for the lubricant again. "Want me to wear a condom?"

Castiel shook his head. "Believe it or not, I'm clean. As long as you are, too, then we don't need it." He didn't want anything between them. He just wanted to feel Dean.

Dean nodded, pressing one more teasing kiss to Castiel's lips. Without warning, he slid his cock into Castiel's body, and the younger man keened. "Oh, God, oh, God, oh God," Castiel whined, closing his eyes in ecstasy. Dean finally bottomed out and a tremor ran through Castiel's body.

"You okay?" Dean breathed, holding perfectly still. Castiel had no idea how he managed to maintain that level of restraint, because he was nowhere near that controlled. He rutted against him, groaning in frustration. It wasn't even close to being enough. "Jesus, Dean, _move_!"

He opened his eyes enough to see that Dean was still wearing that sexy little smirk. "Alright, Cas," he said, the teasing in his tone apparent, even to him. Smile still in place, he slowly pulled out and then slowly pushed back in, stopping just short of hitting his prostate. Castiel whimpered slightly at the denial, trying to meet his next slow, agonizing thrust, but Dean was keeping his other hand firmly against Castiel's hips, effectively holding him down. Castiel groaned again, biting his lip. He had a feeling Dean was doing this on purpose, taunting him to see how much he would take before begging again. Well, he could play this game, too.

Despite clenching and unclenching his fists, he kept his mouth shut tight. Every once in awhile, a soft moan would rise out of his throat—especially that once or twice when Dean came incredibly close to hitting that spot—but he refused to beg for it harder. But _Jesus_ , Dean felt so good, even if he was being frustrating. He spread his legs wider but still didn't plead.

And then Dean licked up the side of his neck and breathed into his ear, "Mine." With that one word, he thrust into Castiel again, and this time, it was hard, fast, deep. Castiel moaned loudly as stars danced across the blackness of his closed eyes. _Fuck it._ "Oh, God, Dean! Just like that!"

Dean acquiesced, releasing his grip on Castiel's hip to slide his hand down his leg. He hooked Castiel's knee over his shoulder and kissed him again. Castiel keened as he went harder, over and over, hitting his prostate again and again. Dean pulled his lips away just in time to hear Castiel let out a ragged, pornographic moan. He breathed into Castiel's ear, "I fucking love the way you moan like that. It lets me know I'm doing okay."

 _You're doing more than okay_ , Castiel thought dizzily, but he could only moan again at the feeling of Dean deep inside him. Dean's fingers wrapped around his erection and started pumping in time to his thrusts. "Oh, Dean, yes! Oh, God…" Castiel met every rock of Dean's hips, moaning and whining at the sensations the older man was causing in him. No one had ever been so focused on him before. He couldn't believe he could feel so amazing.

Dean moaned softly now, his control slipping. Castiel was so responsive, clenching down on him just right in a way he'd probably learned on the street, but he didn't care. Castiel was his—but just as much, he was Castiel's. He bit his lip, his thrusts becoming more irregular, more frantic. The increasing volume and intensity of Castiel's moans indicated that he was close to coming, and Dean knew he couldn't hold out much longer, either. He was actually surprised he'd managed to last this long as it was. Castiel felt so fucking hot and sweet, and he hadn't had sex in a long time. It was his own choice, but he was still unaccustomed to this feeling. "Jesus, Cas," he groaned.

"Please, Dean," Castiel moaned, "I'm so close…" The moment Dean released his wrists, Castiel dug his nails into Dean's back, arching against him. A second later, his leg was wrapped tight around his waist and Castiel was crying out, coming harder than he ever had in his life. Dean kept thrusting and pumping as his own orgasm crashed toward him, and then he was over that edge too, Castiel's come splattering his chest and his own filling Castiel. "Oh, Christ, Dean," Castiel breathed, slowly relaxing his vice grip on Dean's skin.

Slowly, they caught their breath and Dean slid himself out of Castiel. The younger man let out a soft hiss, keeping his arms draped over Dean. His mind was reeling. He'd forgotten that sex was _supposed_ to feel good. It had been so long since it had been anything more than a business transaction, and it had _never_ been about his own pleasure before. Dean had been the only person to truly care if he got off. The connection he felt should have frightened him, but after all he'd seen, staring death in the face only hours before, it didn't feel so strange after all.

Dean had his face buried in Castiel's neck. "Cas, I…" He swallowed. "I can't believe this actually happened. This doesn't seem real."

Castiel raked his fingers through Dean's hair. "You saved me just as much as I saved you, you know. You could have killed me, but you didn't." He pulled Dean's face to him and kissed him. "You gave me a second chance. Thank you."

Dean kissed him now. "Thank you, Castiel." He smiled into Castiel's neck and the two of them drifted off for a few minutes of sleep, keeping their arms around each other.


	13. Chapter 13

The door to the apartment opened and Castiel sleepily sat up. "That will be them," he mumbled, stretching. He reached for his jeans as Dean opened his eyes.

"Oh, cool. Well, I guess I should go meet them." He grinned and threw himself across Castiel's lap to grab his own jeans, but Castiel shook his head.

"I should warn them first. They might take exception to the knowledge that I brought home the man who was supposed to kill me."

Dean paused. "Oh. I guess you're right." He hadn't actually considered that. Honestly, he thought it would have been a better idea to just _not_ tell them that he used to be a repo man. "Any way I can convince you to not mention that fact?"

Castiel shook his head again. "I'm not going to lie to Gabriel again. I'm sure he'll come around, especially once I tell him you cleared out GeneCo's archives." He smiled reassuringly. "Let me just—"

"Cas?" a voice called.

"Yeah, I'm here!" Castiel zipped his jeans and scurried out to meet his brother.

"It was quiet in here," Gabriel said, setting his grocery bag on the counter and fishing out a candy bar. "I was worried. I thought you'd be back by now and…"

Castiel nodded. "Yeah, I know. I was… a bit busy, that's all."

"Did you talk to Anna?" Sam asked. He set his bag next to Gabriel's and began pulling out a loaf of bread and some cheese.

"I did, actually. At first, she stared at me like I was a ghost. And then I explained what happened." Castiel cast his eyes down and shook his head. "I asked Anna to come with us. She said she couldn't. She didn't want to leave Michael or Lu."

"But at least you offered," Gabriel said soothingly. "That's the important thing."

"Yeah. I wish she agreed, but she made her choice." He bit his lip and looked back up. "But there is someone else who wants to come with us."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes a bit. "Who?"

"Um… well, did you hear that Rotti Largo died tonight?"

"No…" Gabriel said slowly.

"Well, he did. And the repo man who was supposed to kill me, he… well, he figured he was going to die anyway, so he broke into GeneCo and wiped out all the records. And then he found out Largo died and he decided, since he basically doesn't have a job anymore, he wants to come with us."

There was a stunned silence. Gabriel broke it. "Wait, your repo man wiped out GeneCo's records?"

"Yes. All the patient files are gone now."

"How did he know Largo was going to die?"

"Huh?"

"You said he figured he was going to die anyway."

"Oh, he had no idea Largo was going to die. He thought he himself was going to die."

"Why?"

Castiel hesitated for a moment. "Because… because he kissed me. And then he let me go."

"No." Gabriel shook his head. "Absolutely not. I am _not_ in favor of the idea of your repo man coming with us."

"Please," Castiel whispered. "He doesn't have anywhere to go. He's looking for his brother—they've been separated for years. Dean is—"

"Dean?" Sam asked, eyes widening.

* * *

Dean was lurking just out of sight around the corner, arriving just as Castiel was finishing his explanation about the fate of some girl named Anna. He patiently waited for his introduction when he heard Gabriel's adamant refusal. He expected this reaction and sighed softly. Great. Now he was back to square one with finding Sammy on his own. He would do it, but it would be difficult.

"Please," he heard Castiel say softly. "He doesn't have anywhere to go. He's looking for his brother—they've been separated for years. "Dean is—"

And then a new voice joined Castiel and Gabriel's. A voice that he would recognize anywhere, even after four years. "Dean?" Yes, his voice had deepened a bit in the intervening years. But he recognized it. _Oh, my God!_ The realization that Sam had been here this whole time with the Novaks—it almost knocked the air out of him. But he summoned his voice and stepped into the doorway.

"S-Sammy?"

That six-foot-four Sasquatch was his little Sammy, now three inches taller than him and all grown up. Those were Sammy's eyes, that was Sammy's smile—it was his brother. Eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and joy, Sammy stared at him for a moment before yelling, "DEAN!"

Dean practically launched himself at his brother. A moment later, Dean and Sam Winchester were hugging each other tightly. There was no space between them anymore, and the four years that had kept them apart were over. Both brothers were nearly sobbing, Sammy saying over and over, "I can't believe you're alive, I can't believe you're alive," and Dean just clinging to his brother.

"I guess I'm changing my answer, then," Gabriel said, meeting his own brother's smile with a comical grin of his own.

* * *

"So what happened? Where have you been?" Sammy asked a little later once the Novaks and the Winchesters had settled down in the living room.

"The night they came for me, I tried to fight back. I did fight back, but the repo man overpowered me. I guess Largo was watching, though, because the repo man said Largo had an offer for me. He said that if I agreed to come work for him, he'd forgive my debt. I told him no, unless he cleared your debt, too."

"So that's why…?"

Dean nodded. "You got a letter saying your debt was paid off, right?"

Sam nodded slowly. "It arrived a week after you di—disappeared." He was so used to saying his brother died. That he was still alive hadn't quite sunk in yet.

"Yeah. The other part of the bargain, one he didn't tell me until afterward, was that I couldn't contact you again. Even if I had known before, though, it wouldn't have changed my answer." Dean sighed, fixing his brother with a sad, resigned look. "I wanted you to stay alive, Sammy. I had to do anything to be sure you lived. I couldn't live with myself if you died like that."

"So you became a repo man."

"I had to. I…" Dean swallowed. "I would have killed the whole world if it kept you alive."

"I'm not worth that," Sam said, eyes downcast. "I'm not worth selling your soul."

At this, both Dean and Gabriel raised their voices in protest. Sam looked from one to the other and just shook his head. Finally, Dean asked, "What happened? I mean, you went homeless six months ago. I thought you were doing okay for awhile, but…" His voice trailed off as he remembered what Castiel had said. _"He took this boy in to help him kick his Zydrate habit."_

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "I… I was a junkie. I was addicted to Zydrate and I let it take over my life."

A deep, aching sadness welled up in Dean's chest. "Why?"

"You were gone, Dean. I was alone. It hurt to… to even remember that you were gone, and Ruby—"

"Who the Hell is Ruby?"

"My old dealer. She called me 'Sammy' and you were the only one who called me that before. It just reminded me of you and I didn't want to remember. She kind of abused that knowledge. It got out of control."

Dean looked at the golden-haired man next to Sam. Gabriel, Castiel's brother, the man who apparently saved his brother. "So you convinced Sam to get clean?"

Gabriel shook his head. "He came to that realization on his own. But when he told me, I knew I had to help him. It would be too easy to relapse if he stayed on the street. So I offered him a place to stay."

"Thank you for looking out for him," Dean said softly. "I can't possibly tell you what it means to me to know someone was looking out for him when I couldn't."

Gabriel nodded. He didn't say how much he needed Sam already. "Well, you let Castiel live. I can't tell you what that meant to me. I don't know if he told you, but he's the only family I have."

"He didn't tell me, but… it was in the file." It was a bit awkward to admit, again, that he had been assigned to kill Castiel. He wanted to just forget it, forget that he'd ever been a legal assassin. It hurt to realize just how long it had been since he felt remorse for any of the people he killed. He'd been soulless for so long—but somehow, Castiel had reminded him.

"That's how you knew about Gabe," Castiel half-guessed.

Dean nodded. "So you're a drug dealer?"

Gabriel shot him a look that was somehow condescending. His expression seemed to say, "You're one to talk. _You_ were a murderer." "I _was_. Only to keep the apartment and put away some money in case Cas needed it. He never asked, though."

"I thought you only saw me as a burden," Castiel murmured. "I guess I was kind of a moron, huh?"

He was right, but Gabriel wasn't about to agree with him. "You didn't know. The Zydrate hazed you."

That Castiel had been a Zydrate addict didn't surprise him, not like Sammy's addiction. Dean just nodded. "Well, I found Sam, so that was my main goal." He smiled at his brother who smiled back. "So I guess, whenever you're ready, I'm ready to leave this place behind."

* * *

**_2060_ **

"Our heroes will not be forgotten, and GeneCo will live on under new management. Me."

It was the four-year anniversary of what became known as the Fall of GeneCo. Gabriel was flipping through the channels and skipped right past the rerun, a clip of Amber Sweet's big announcement of her take-over as head of GeneCo. Sam was curled up against him, his head against Gabriel's chest and enjoying the feel of the other man's fingers in his hair. Dean and Castiel were lying on the floor, snuggled up against each other and only half-paying attention to the television. They were more focused on each other.

They all knew how the story ended, anyway. The day after Rotti Largo died, Amber Sweet announced that she was now the president of GeneCo and, in addition, took credit for the sudden absence of every patient's records. She claimed it was another symbol of GeneCo's commitment to change—everyone got a clean slate, a clear debt. Everyone went back to zero.

But they'd left anyway. That city held too much for all of them. Sam needed to be free of the junkies. Gabriel didn't want to see any of the people who he'd sold to ever again. Castiel had to get away from the people he used to sell himself to, Alastair especially. (Dean had offered to find and kill him, but the other three had all vetoed the idea immediately. Castiel and Sam didn't like the idea of him killing someone, and Dean could see their point.) Dean just had to get out of the city where all the other repo men would recognize him and quite possibly kill him.

All four of them were better off now. They had each other and all of them were alive and keeping each other alive. It was the happiest they'd ever been, and now Gabriel wasn't worried about Castiel every second he was gone. Dean knew his brother was going to be okay. The Winchesters and the Novaks were finally happy.


End file.
